Off The Record
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Gilbert Beilschmidt was an NYPD detective assigned to a top-secret case: "You want us to play live-in bodyguards to protect a French politician and his son from a criminally-insane kidnapper; keep them under house-arrest, scare off any press that comes close, and—just a guess—we're not getting paid overtime. Is that about right?"—"Cool. When do we start?"
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names & relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

CANADA — Mathew Bonnefoi

RUSSIA — Ivan Braginsky

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

AMERICA — Alfred F. Jones

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

GERMANY — Ludwig Beilschmidt

JAPAN — Honda Kiku

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

LITHUANIA — Toris Laurinaitis

ESTONIA — Eduard von Bock

LATVIA — Raivis Galante

POLAND — Feliks Lukasiewicz

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 **OTTAWA**

The boy dashed into the hallway, slipping on the polished hardwood barefoot; he crashed into an end-table, upsetting a vase, which fell to the floor and shattered. His heart was pounding as he leapt down the stairs, clenching the spiral railing as he dodged a bullet. Someone shouted loudly in an unidentifiable language, sounding furious. But he didn't slow. He bolted through the entrance hall, heading for the back-garden, but the way was blocked. More shouting ensued as he quickly changed direction, running into the spacious kitchen—and right into a _his_ waiting arms. He was an incredibly big, muscular man with broad shoulders and long limbs corded with strength. His hair and eyes were both pale, and his grin was childishly frightening. Finding his voice, the boy shrieked loudly:

"Let me go! Please, let me go! What do you want?! I don't have anything! I haven't done anything— _Ah_!"

His hand closed around the boy's slender neck, forcing his head up. The boy struggled, but he was weak and breathless; it was a physically compromising position, pressed between a wall and the big man's barrel chest. He felt a tear fall from his eye, but the man caught it on a fingertip. Almost tenderly—suddenly not wanting to scare the boy—he caressed his cheek, and calmly said: "I want you. It's always been you." Then he leaned down, closing the distance between them, and kissed the boy's lips.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the man cooing softly, trying to coax him into submission. Then he heard a shout of alarm, a crash—the force of an opened door—and more gunshots.


	2. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **ONE**

 **NEW YORK CITY**

NYPD, freeze!" Gil shouted, aiming a gun. The perpetrator—a tall Caucasian male with a goatee, ponytail, and black clothing—whipped around in surprise and tried to run. "Oh, you goddamned mutterficker!" Gil growled, taking off in pursuit. He was fast (the fastest sprinter on the force) and kicked-out to trip the guy, then planted a heel in his back to force him down. The perpetrator struggled, spitting insults while proclaiming his innocence as Gil handcuffed him. It was annoying, so Gil grabbed his ponytail and slammed his forehead against the pavement.

"I know you're an angry German and all, but here in America we're supposed to read them their Miranda Rights before smashing their heads into the pavement."

Gil grinned at Al, who emerged from a nearby alley. "Maybe I wouldn't be so angry if my goddamned Yankee partner could run faster than a ficking tricycle. Lay off the ficking donuts, ja?"

Al frowned and holstered his gun. "Low-blow, dude. That's a lame-ass stereotype. Not all of us went to fancy military-school, or boot-camp, or wherever it was you wasted your childhood learning how to outrun a fucking bullet. If that were true then there's absolutely no doubt this sex-god physique"—he gestured to himself—"would be able to outrun your bony ass. And also—"

" _Are you serious_?" said the perpetrator woozily.

Gil and Al exchanged a look, playfully competitive. Then Gil grabbed the guy's ponytail and yanked his head back: "It's not about size, it's about being awesome. Tell him," he said, shaking the guy.

"You a fucking poet, or what?" Al dismissed, snorting. To the perpetrator, he said: "Tell him that's just what skinny guys say when they're fucking inept. You might've gone to _military-school_ ," he made air-quotes, "but I grew-up on the streets of N.Y.C., dude. Welcome to my territory, bitch—"

"That's enough," said a third-party voice, unimpressed.

Gil and Al both turned to find Arthur staring unhappily at them, tapping his index-finger on his hip. In good-faith they both smiled, and said: "Sorry, Captain," like school-boys mocking a professor.

Arthur rolled his forest-green eyes. "Do you have to make _everything_ a competition?" When both detectives shrugged, unconcerned, Arthur shook his head and said: "Just get in the cruiser."

* * *

Ficking _awesome_!" sang Gil, catching Al in a high-five. "You realize, of course, that this arrest officially makes Team Beilschmidt-Jones the most successful detectives on the force."

"Fuck yeah, we are— Wait," Al frowned. "I thought we agreed on Team Jones-Beilschmidt."

"Nein, we agreed to go alphabetically," Gil replied, throwing an arm companionably over his young partner's shoulders. "C'mon, this is something to celebrate. The beers are on me!"

Appeased by the promise of beer, Al nodded. However, they were called into Arthur's office before they could leave. The green-eyed Englishman looked stressed. It had been less than a month since he had been transferred from a quiet neighbourhood uptown and he was having trouble adjusting to the sporadic hours and nonstop action of the downtown precinct. But he was young, exceptionally clever, hardworking, and dedicated. His recent promotion to captain was the first-step to making a good impression on the higher-ups and both detectives knew that he would work himself sick before admitting defeat. In all honesty he was a good captain, exceptionally efficient at his job. But, of course, the most successful—conceited, loud-mouthed, and proud—cops on the force weren't going to tell him that. Instead, they whined like preschoolers:

"Art-ie!" Al moaned, sinking to his knees. "You're cutting into celebratory beer-time!"

"Ja, what could be so important that you wanted to talk to us privately at beer-time?" Gil seconded.

Arthur sighed, dismissing both jokes without comment, which made both detectives reconsider the captain. "I just got a call from Ottawa. I'm assigning you both to a special mission. It's extremely sensitive and _must_ be kept a secret." He eyed the two young detectives—the loud-mouthed blonde, and the trigger-happy albino—and shook his head, muttering: "I can't believe I'm trusting _you_ with this. But," he said louder, facing them, "you're both undeniably good at your job and you've both got a strange fetish for doing it— not _right_ exactly, but _well_."

Gil and Al exchanged a glance in intrigue. "Oh, ja? What is it? What's the case?" Gil asked, over-eager.

Arthur opened a virtual file on his laptop, which filled the screen. He pointed to a photograph: "Francis and Mathew Bonnefoi, father and son from Ottawa, have both been placed in witness protection under my jurisdiction. The Canadian police thought it best to get them out of the country as soon as possible. Mathew," he pointed to a pale-haired boy with big, violet eyes, "eighteen-years-old, is being targeted by this man"—he opened another file—"Ivan Braginsky, Russian citizen; wanted on several charges of assault, armed robbery, kidnapping, and attempted murder. He's been tried twice in the last two years but has never been convicted. The second time he pleaded insanity, but that same day he escaped from police custody. A week ago he and several accomplices forced entry into the Bonnefoi home and attempted to kidnap the boy," he tapped the screen with his knuckles. "Fortunately they were unsuccessful. Bonnefoi is presently fighting assault charges for _excessive use of force_ , claiming self-defense, which it _was_ ," Arthur agreed, "but that's not our concern. Our concern is keeping both Bonnefoi and his son alive and safe. I want you two to do whatever is necessary to protect this family until Braginsky is brought to justice. I'm pulling you off every other case until this has been resolved, you'll even live at the safe-house with them."

"That's kind of... uncouth," said Al, mocking Arthur's accent.

"It's weird," said Gil, wine-red eyes narrowed in suspicion. He cocked his thumb at the laptop screen: "Why the special treatment for these two? Who are they?"

" _Really_?" said Arthur in disbelief. "You're both brilliant detectives, but have neither of you read the bloody newspaper in the last year? Francis Bonnefoi happens to be the French Ambassador to Canada, who was campaigning for a seat in office—suspended now, due to circumstances. Given the present state of French international law, he is a _very_ important person and he— Oh, bloody-hell, just watch the news and educate yourselves. He also happens to be worth over seven-hundred million dollars, but I digress," he said, watching Gil and Al's mouths drop open. "Frankly, why Braginsky went after the boy and not the father is a mystery. Ransom is the only logical motive, but, given the circumstances of the break-in, it's weak. Francis Bonnefoi was injured in the assault. If Braginsky had wanted to kill him or threaten him, that would've been the time." Arthur shrugged. "According to the police report though, he was injured in defense of his son. It's no secret that Bonnefoi loves his son; he's even made public statements about it. But again I digress. The only people outside the three of us who know about this case is your brother's team," he nodded to Gil. "They'll be running surveillance but that's it. The last thing we want is the press getting involved. There can't be any leaks to alert Braginsky to Mathew's whereabouts, understand?"

Gil nodded. "So let me recap: you want us to play live-in bodyguards to protect dearest daddy and his little treasure from a legally-insane Russian kidnapper, keep them under house-arrest, scare off any press that comes close, and—just a guess—we're not getting paid overtime. Is that about right?"

Helplessly, Arthur shrugged. "Yes. This is really important and I don't trust anyone as much as you two."

Gil looked at Al, who grinned: "Cool. When do we start?"

* * *

 **TWO DAYS LATER**

 **AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION**

This is a safe-house?" Gil gaped. "It's nicer than my apartment!"

"So is a public restroom, dude," said Al, clapping his shoulder. They were standing in front of a lavish, two-level house in upstate New York. "I guess when you're a fucking rich-kid you get the royal treatment wherever you go, huh?" Gil shrugged. Al lifted his hand and knocked on the door, and then he impatiently inserted a key and punched a code into the alarm system. "Hello? Mr. Bonnefoi—?" he called, poking his head inside. He walked into the entrance hall and whistled in appreciation: "Wall-sconces, high ceilings, hardwood floors... and I bet the fridge is fully stocked. This could be, like, the first vacation I've taken in five years."

"I hate vacations," Gil grumbled, following Al. "They're boring, I get restless."

"Hello?!" Al called again. "This is the right address, right?"

"Obviously, otherwise your key wouldn't have unlocked the front door, genius. Let's just search the house," he said, drawing his gun. _What if we're too late and Braginsky's already been here_? Al aped Gil's posture, thinking the same thing. Silently Gil gestured for Al to search the second-level while he searched the first. Al nodded and disappeared up the stairs. Gil gently kicked open a door, which led to a spacious kitchen. He poked his head into the fridge—yes, it was well-stocked—and then moved on. As he drew closer to an archway he heard voices speaking softly in French. _Is that Bonnefoi_? Cautiously he peeked inside. It was a lounge with a bar and a pool-table, and patio doors leading outside; the television was on a French channel. And there was a boy asleep on the couch: _Mathew_.

Gil relaxed and holstered his gun. He looked down at Matt, lying on his back on the couch in blue-jeans and a t-shirt ( _Team Canada_ ), which was too big for his figure. He was fine-boned— _like a little birdie_ —with pale-blonde curls and white skin; not albino-white, like Gil's was, but lovely winter-white. He had willowy fingers and wrists, one hand pressed against his forehead and the other resting peacefully over the slope of his flat stomach. His long, slim legs were curled-up against the couch's leather arm. He was breathing softly.

Gil cocked his head. _I thought this kid just photographed well_ , _but he's actually really_ —

Matt's eyes opened, revealing beautiful violet: "Are you... watching me sleep?"

"Ja, that's kind of my job now." The boy blinked in shock, looking suddenly scared. "Oh Gott, you don't know that I'm joking," Gil hurried to explain. He felt uncomfortably flustered, an unfamiliar feeling.

Drowsily, Matt pushed himself onto his elbows. "Who _are_ you?"

"Oh, right." Gil fumbled with his police badge. "Detective Gilbert Beilschmidt, I've been assigned to protect you and your father."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Matt stood clumsily, habitually pulling his t-shirt down over his thighs. "Please forgive me, I've been in police custody for three days and I haven't slept in, like, forty hours. I'm Matt Bonnefoi," he introduced himself, extending his hand. "Thank-you in advance for looking after my Papa and I, Detective."

"Mm hmm, ja," said Gil unintelligibly. The boy's skin was surprisingly cold, but soft. Having read Matt's file—private school, straight-A student whose single-father was a multi-millionaire politician from Paris; someone used to the best of everything—Gil was expecting a spoiled, demanding, stuck-up brat, especially since he had also read Francis' file and determined that the Frenchman was an undeniable playboy. But looking at Matt—rosy cheeks flushed as he shyly shook Gil's hand, looking anxious—Gil felt his bravado soften; _melt_ was a better word. Within the last twenty-four hours he had pulled an all-nighter researching Bonnefoi thoroughly, re-watching interviews. Francis was a tall, fine-featured man with long ash-blonde hair, seductive blue eyes, and sophisticated taste; he laughed liberally; he had a languid posture and a suave attitude; and was the exact opposite of who his son seemed to be (though they were undeniably similar in appearance). Gil was about to speak, when:

"MERDE! _Que faites-vous_?!"

"Papa," said Matt, racing upstairs. Gil followed, jumping up the carpeted steps. "Est-ce que ça va, Papa?"

"Mathieu! Oh, mon bébé chéri!" Francis shoved past Al on the second-level landing and grabbed Matt's bicep, searching him for signs of abuse. It wasn't hard to see that Francis considered himself Matt's protector, under attack or otherwise. "Est-ce que ça va?!"

"Oui, ça va," Matt sighed, blushing in embarrassment. He glanced at Gil and rolled his violet eyes, conveying exasperation. "Hello. It's nice to meet you, Detective," he said, nodding to Al.

"Uh... yeah, hello," Al replied. Pointing at Francis, he asked: "Does your father speak English?"

"I'm the French Ambassador to Canada, of course I speak Anglais!" Francis snapped. "Now, Detectives," he said, glancing between them, "what are you doing sneaking around the house? Is _that_ professional? You scared the fucking hell out of me!" he accused Al. It was then that Matt spoke rapidly yet softly in French to him, which neither Gil nor Al understood, but Francis nodded: "Oui, oui," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Je suis désolé. Mon Mathieu and I haven't slept in forty hours and a criminally-insane Russian tried to murder me and take my son. I'm un peu on-edge. You just startled me, Détective Jones."

"It's alright, that's understandable," said Al considerately. He was surprisingly good at relating to people. His face was so honest that they trusted him, which is why Al always played good-cop when he and Gil did interrogations. "But you don't need to worry, sir. Gil and I are here to protect you. It's our job to keep you and Matt safe—"

" _Mathieu_ ," Francis corrected.

"Non, Matt's fine," said Matt dismissively.

"Hmm, ja. Maybe we should talk downstairs?" Gil suggested. "Mr. Bonnefoi, Francis— can I call you Francis? I think it would be best if you and Matt enlightened us about what's going on." He indicated the kitchen table, inviting them to sit. "Tell us everything you know about Ivan Braginsky, even if it's miniscule."

Francis glanced at Matt. "Honestly, we don't really know anything about him. The most we know is what the police have told us. He's dangerous and for some reason he's targeting Mathieu, but I haven't a clue why. Perhaps it's because he's my son," Francis guessed, then shook his head. "But if that's the case, why doesn't he just come after me? Why does it have to be Mathieu?!" he demanded in outrage.

"Papa," Matt calmed him. To the detectives, he said: "I first noticed six months ago. He was at my school—"

"He started stalking mon Mathieu," Francis interrupted. "When the high-school refused him entrance, he started waiting outside the gates. He tried to convince mon Mathieu to go with him; he followed Mathieu home. When I noticed him on the street outside our house I immediately phoned the police. I filed for a restraining order, but le Russe didn't care. He continued to stalk mon Mathieu. He even—"

"Francis, maybe you could let Matt tell us," said Gil, glancing between father and son. "It _is_ his stalker. Go ahead, Matt. Tell us what Braginsky said to you."

Matt talked to his hands, a rehearsed speech that he had already told a dozen times: "At first he just wanted to talk. I was skeptical, but I went with him for coffee. I know I shouldn't have," he added before either detective could criticize his poor choice, "but he was so insistent. I tried to explain to him that we didn't know each other, but it only seemed to frustrate him. He kept insisting that we _did_ know each other. He was so... _familiar_ with me, it freaked me out. I tried to tell him he had the wrong person but he refused to believe me." Sheepishly, Matt shrugged. "Since then I've begun to think that maybe I _am_ supposed to know him from somewhere and I've just forgotten where. I mean, what if this is somehow my fault? I know he's not well, but I just—"

"Non, Mathieu. It's not your fault," said Francis sternly.

"He's right, Matt," said Al. "Braginsky is mentally unstable. Whatever he's said to you, whatever relationship he's invented is nothing but a figment of his imagination. Don't be making excuses for it or you'll drive yourself mad."

The informal interview carried-on, but Francis and Matt didn't have any fresh information that Gil and Al hadn't already heard. They talked about protocol, which, after three days in police custody, was nothing new to father and son; and they talked about the surveillance team that was stationed in the vacant house across the street. "Don't worry, mein little bruder is very good at his job— almost as awesome as me," Gil reassured them. "If there's any threat within a fifteen-mile radius, he'll know about it. But that doesn't mean you can leave," he added when Francis asked. The Frenchman visibly deflated when told he was on house-arrest and not allowed any contact with the outside world: no phones or personal online accounts. "Think of it like a vacation," Al said cheerfully. "You won't have to work at all, Mr. Bonnefoi." But the suggestion had the opposite impact on Francis, who yelled about how important a position he maintained and how critical his work was. Matt, however, seemed unbothered by the lock-down and was only disappointed about not being able to run outside. "If you do need to leave the house for any reason, one of us will accompany you. If you see or hear anything strange, you're to report it to us immediately. And, if you feel so inclined, you can speak to Captain Kirkland using this cell-phone; his private number is already programmed. I think that's it," Gil finished explaining. "So don't worry, just try to relax and let us catch the bad-guys," he smiled, winking at Matt.

"Merci," Matt said politely, but he didn't look reassured. He looked scared.

* * *

Despite his frustration, Francis cooked supper and invited Gil and Al to join them. It was delicious. Gil didn't exactly have a gourmet pallet; he always left the table feeling hungry whenever treated to such rich-tasting food. He preferred simple, hardy foods that were easy to prepare, but, admittedly, Francis was an excellent cook—though a bit of a snob when it came to preparation and dining. "Mon Dieu! What are you doing?" he asked as Gil mashed up his potatoes. "You're ruining the texture _and_ the presentation!" Gil only shrugged, and said: "I like it better this way." After supper, Matt cleared the table and offered to do the washing-up. "Merci, chéri," Francis said, leaving him to it.

"Need help?" Al offered in thanks for the meal (in truth, he detested chores). But Matt dismissed him and he left. Gil, however, stayed.

"You don't have to stay here, you can leave," said Matt, elbow-deep in dish-water. "I always do the washing-up when Papa cooks."

"Does he cook often? Don't you have a live-in chef?"

Matt snorted. "Do you think I live in a hotel or something?"

Gil shrugged. His father was in the military so Gil and Ludwig had grown-up on a military-base in spotless, near-empty homes favouring functionality. Mealtimes had been a necessity, not a party. Consequentially, Gil's table-manners were somewhat brash. He couldn't imagine the kind of place Matt lived in, styled to impress.

"When I was little I had a nanny, and we have a housekeeper and a cook on weekdays, but neither of them live with us," Matt explained. "Sometimes Papa hires a chauffeur when he's working, and a man called Dan used to drive me to elementary school, but after five o'clock it's just Papa and I most days. I'm glad," he added, growing quiet. "If anyone else had been there that night, Ivan would've—" Pause. "Papa has always loved to cook and this is my way of contributing. I didn't inherit his natural talent," he finished in a teasingly self-degrading tone.

 _You didn't inherit his arrogance either_ , Gil thought. It was striking how two people could look so alike in physical appearance but behave as opposites. _They remind me of me and mein bruder_ : Ludwig, who was composed and logical (high blood-pressure aside); and Gil, who was loud, irrational, and valued his awesome reputation more than protocol. It wasn't for the money or potential for promotion that convinced Gil to join the police force. His father had wanted him to join the military, but Gil had become a cop for two reasons: the first was to indulge in personal glory; and the second—

He glanced at Matt, who was quiet and reserved, an innocent victim tangled in some psychopath's fantasy.

 _The real reason I became a cop was to protect people like you_.

* * *

It was late and everyone was (supposedly) in bed. Gil had taken the first night-shift in favour of exploring the house uninterrupted, but he got distracted when he saw the kitchen light on. Matt flinched when Gil said: "Matt?" spilling coffee beans all over the counter. The boy was dressed for bed—red t-shirt and boxer-shorts—but he looked too wired to sleep, violet eyes wide. "What are you doing?" Gil asked.

Matt shrugged, avoiding eye-contact as he collected each individual bean. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I just can't sleep."

"Is that why you're making _coffee_? Because I think that might be counterproductive," he replied sarcastically. Matt didn't answer. He kept his head down, curls shielding his face. Gil softened his tone: "Or maybe it's to keep you awake because you're too afraid to sleep. Maybe that's why you kept the T.V. on this afternoon, but that didn't work, did it?" Matt tensed. "It's okay, you know. It happens more often than you'd think, I've seen it. It's a natural defense, but it doesn't help. Sleep deprivation only makes you less inclined to think logically and feeds the fear."

Matt inclined his head. "I know. It wasn't so bad at the police station, but here"—he gestured, directionless—"it feels so exposed, just a house. What's to stop Ivan from bursting in through that door?"

"Me," said Gil, stepping forward. "That's why Al and I are here. If that mutterficker shows up, I'll stop him before he gets to you. It's my job to protect you, it's why I'm here so don't worry." Matt stood silently, rubbing a coffee bean between his thumb and index-finger. Gil sighed. "You don't think we're good enough, do you?"

"It's not that," said Matt. "It's just... you didn't see Ivan's face. His eyes when he told me..."

"What?" Gil studied him, wine-red eyes watching his reaction. "What did he tell you?"

Matt pursed his lips. Shyly, he looked at Gil. "Don't tell my Papa, eh? The night Ivan broke into our house he grabbed me and said... Well, it's kind of... embarrassing."

"The guy's crazy. He's going to say crazy shit," Gil shrugged. "Tell me."

"He said: _I want you. It's always been you_ , and then he kissed me." Matt looked down, blushing. "I don't know why. Frankly, it makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it. But what I saw in those pale eyes was so..."

"Crazy? Angry? Homicidal?"

"Honest," Matt said. "He really believes that he and I are supposed to be together and I get the feeling that he would do anything to make that happen. He doesn't think of it as wrong, what he's doing: trying to kidnap me. That night, it was almost like he was trying to protect me from an imagined threat. Really, I feel sorry for him. He's clearly unwell, but... it's that obsession that terrifies me. You say you'll stop him," Matt faced Gil. There was fear and doubt in his eyes. "And I really hope you can because I don't want Ivan to hurt Papa— again." Gil could see guilt: Matt blamed himself for Francis' injury. "But I don't think you can protect _me_. I'm sorry," he added, shrugging helplessly. "I'm not trying to insult you. I'm sure you and Alfred are excellent cops. I've just got a really bad feeling that won't go away."

"It will if you sleep," Gil said after a minute. "You're exhausted and stressed and scared. That's a bad combo. Look at you, your hands are shaking." As if on-cue, Matt dropped a coffee-mug and it shattered on the floor. He inhaled sharply, biting back a curse; tears beaded in his eyes. He knelt, but Gil grabbed his reaching hand. "Matt, go to sleep. I'll clean this up— it'll probably take me all night," he added, indicating the broken glass and spilled beans. It was subtle, but Matt understood: _I'm not going to fall asleep_ , _I'm not going to leave. I'm going to stay vigilant and guard the house because that's my job. Go to sleep_ , _Matt. As long as I'm here_ , _you're safe._


	3. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **TWO**

Matt tossed-and-turned but, try as he might, he couldn't sleep. He wanted his own bed, in his own room, in his own home. He wanted to believe that Ivan wasn't going to break-in and carry him off like a fairytale villain. Feeling dizzy in exhaustion—he had a terrible headache—he laid awake all night and stared out the window. At sunrise he got up and dressed, finger-combing his pale curls as he descended the stairs. At the kitchen entrance he walked right into the wall, smacking his forehead.

From the kitchen table, Al snorted. "Sorry, dude. You okay?"

"Mm hmm," Matt groaned, rubbing his forehead. His skin was so pale, he hoped it wouldn't leave a bruise ( _that would be embarrassing_ ). He sank into the chair across from Al and buried his head. "Coffee?" he begged. Al gestured to the counter, shoveling a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Matt lifted his head slightly, eyeing the coffee-pot. It looked so far. Instead, he said: "Is Gilbert sleeping?" He needn't ask about Francis, his father always slept late.

"Yeah. I relieved him at three o'clock this morning, but he'll—" Al yawned deeply "—be up soon. He never sleeps-in late, he gets bored and can't sit still. He's got a short attention-span. He works a lot of overtime."

Sluggishly Matt moved to the coffee-pot. "How long have you two been partners?"

"Five years," Al said. Then he lifted the cereal bowl and tipped it into his mouth, slurping up milk.

Matt frowned. Sleep-deprivation bypassed politeness and promoted him to ask: "How old are you?" Al didn't look much older than Matt, who had just finished his last year of high-school.

"Twenty-four," Al replied, surprising Matt. "I know I look younger, right? It's my boyish good-looks," he smiled cheekily. "I started training at the police academy the day I turned eighteen. I'm a high-school dropout," he added, shrugging as if it didn't bother him, but he avoided eye-contact. "Gil was my mentor when I joined the force. He had been working solo for almost three years. He's twenty-six," he answered Matt's unasked question. "He came straight from a military-school in Germany, that's where the funny accent's from."

"Yeah, thanks," said Matt sarcastically. Though _funny_ wasn't the word he would have used. Gil's voice was like a growl, not deep exactly, but confident. He poured himself a coffee—double sugar, double milk—and sat back down. It was quiet, too early for traffic or neighbourhood school-children. The birds whistled cheerfully, but Matt felt irritable. He rested his chin on the blunt of his palm, right hand curled around his coffee-mug. Exhausted, his eyelids drooped, too tired to maintain conversation with Al. He closed his eyes, just for a moment—

"You didn't sleep, did you?"

Matt forced his eyes open and saw Gil frowning down at him. He hadn't even heard the German enter. Al had left, but Matt didn't know how long ago, or how long he had been half-asleep at the kitchen table. His coffee was at room-temperature and had spilled over the tabletop, dripping onto the floor. The mug laid beside Matt's hand. In surprise he pushed himself up, cheek pressed to the polished wood. Trying to recover, he mumbled: "I'm fine," but flinched when Gil grabbed his bicep and pulled him roughly up. "Eh, what're you doing—?"

"C'mon," Gil guided Matt upstairs, steering and bracing his weight. "You're becoming self-destructive. You've got a big bruise on your face by the way. I'm taking you to sleep properly. Don't argue," he added, parading Matt into his designated bedroom at the top of the staircase. "Strip if you want, or sleep in your clothes. I don't care." He turned down the bedcovers, which Matt had folded so neatly before leaving, and then pushed down on Matt's shoulders, forcing him to sit on the double-bed. The mattress was firm; the duvet was soft. But Matt was annoyed:

"Gilbert, please. I'm fine—"

The red-eyed German looked pointedly at him. He walked to the window and closed the blinds, making it impossible for Matt to focus on the outside. Then he closed the door and the room darkened. Gil whipped out his cell-phone and slumped comfortably in an armchair beside the window. The glow lit his pale face, casting sinister shadows over his sharp features. He looked strikingly dangerous, but his tone was nonchalant when he said: "I'm going to sit right here and play games on my phone while you sleep, ja? Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but given that you fell asleep at the kitchen table I don't think my presence will bother you. Just relax and stop worrying and get some ficking sleep before you fall down the stairs." He pointed to the bed, the sheets turned down invitingly, and he grinned in victory. "You're not leaving. And I'm not going anywhere either, so sleep for as long as you want."

Matt recognized a hopeless argument (he had argued with Francis often enough). He sighed and leaned back into the plush pillows, fully-dressed. It was strange. He hadn't had someone watch him sleep since he had been a child, demanding that Francis stay beside him until he fell asleep, naively afraid of everything that _couldn't_ hurt him. Matt had always suffered vibrant nightmares; he had an overactive imagination. "Don't worry, bébé. I won't leave you," Francis always promised. Of course, it was a lie. Francis left as soon as Matt was sleeping, like every parent, as expected. But Matt couldn't quell his anxiety, thinking about it now. _This is stupid_ , he realized, curling-up beneath the duvet. _Why am I so afraid that Gil will leave as soon as I fall asleep_ , _like Papa used to_? _Why does it even bother me_? _It won't matter once I'm asleep._ Anxious, he tried to stay awake to prove Gil wrong, but his body was exhausted and fought his brain's foggy protest. His eyelids drooped and, without conscious volition, he fell effortlessly asleep.

* * *

Matt flipped onto his side, curled-up like a kicked dog. His eyelids fluttered, brow creased. Softly he whimpered, as if he could see an invisible threat. It had been half-an-hour since the boy had conceded to sleep. _He really must have been exhausted if he's already dreaming so deeply_ , Gil thought, eyeing the bed. _Nightmares_ , he corrected, noting the boy's creased brow and the tears beaded in the corners of his eyes. _That's why he was afraid to sleep_. _I guess if I had a psychopathic stalker I'd be scared too_. He paused his game and stood. He walked over to the bed, looking down at Matt in sympathy. The duvet had fallen off of his shoulders, which were arched defensively. His t-shirt—too big for him ( _this guy needs to find clothes that fit_ )—revealed a generous portion of winter-white skin, his slender neck, and collarbone. _I've got to stop watching him sleep_ , Gil berated, tearing his eyes away. Fraternally he reached down and pulled the duvet up over Matt's shoulders, tucking him in. But before he could retreat Matt grabbed his hand and squeezed pleadingly. Gil's first thought was that he had woken the boy, but Matt's eyes were closed. "Hey, I need my hand," Gil said quietly, pulling gently. He stopped when unconscious-Matt gasped in fear. His grip tightened, drawing comfort from Gil's solid touch: his strength. Gil sighed in defeat. "Okay then, have it your way, you spoiled rich-kid," he teased as he sat down on the mattress. His added weight and proximity, his body-heat, seemed to soothe Matt. Already the boy had calmed, no longer whimpering. He held Gil's hand beside him on the pillow. Gil shook his head, crossed his ankles comfortably, and flipped open his cell-phone.

* * *

Matt shifted, coming back to consciousness. Slowly he opened his eyes, feeling refreshed, and saw Gil sitting beside him. It took his sleep-heavy brain a second to comprehend that the detective hadn't broken his word, and another to realize how close he was. " _Wha_ —?" Matt murmured, frowning.

Gil glanced quickly at Matt, then back to his game. "Check it out," he said happily, "I beat my high-score one-handed because I'm just _that_ awesome!"

Matt blinked, then realized he was holding Gil's left hand. Quickly, he released it: "Oh, sorry! I didn't realize I had... I'm sorry," he repeated, blushing in embarrassment. He shifted back, crawling out of bed on the opposite side. Gil shrugged, slipping his cell-phone into his pocket. Before he did, Matt saw the time: two o'clock in the afternoon. "I slept for eight hours?" he pondered aloud. "Did you... stay here the whole time?"

"Ja. Your Vater came in at noon and told me I could leave—he was pretty insistent about it, actually—but you got nervous when I tried to get up," he said teasingly. "I told him I didn't mind, that it was better if you just slept. He wasn't happy about letting me stay. He's really protective of you, isn't he? I guess he has good reason to be." He stood up and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck, as if he hadn't just spent eight hours babysitting Matt, playing games on his cell-phone to pass the time. Then his stomach growled. "You hungry, Matt?" And just like that, hands hanging casually from his jeans' pockets, he slipped out the door, expecting Matt to follow—which he did.

On the second-level landing, they could hear Al and Francis arguing:

"I'm going into town whether you come or not. You said I could go out as long as I had a police escort, didn't you? So why aren't you honouring your word, Détective?"

"Because you don't _need_ to go out!" Al rebuked.

"We're out of café—" Francis argued.

"How is that possible?!" Al snapped. "There was a full, unopened bag last night." Matt glanced guiltily at Gil, who pursed his lips. He had stopped on the steps, grinning as he listened to the verbal battle grow in intensity. "You couldn't have drank _that_ much coffee in one day," he accused Francis. "You're just using this as an excuse to go out."

Francis scoffed in insult. "I wouldn't! And of course I didn't drink it all. I would've gone into cardiac-arrest if I had, idiot. It must have been your partner, Gilbert. He was up all night—"

"Gil doesn't drink coffee," Al countered. "Gil!" he added as Gil and Matt descended the stairs. "Tell him that you didn't drink all of his precious _café_ ," he mocked Francis' accent.

Francis glared unhappily. Matt felt obliged to tell him the truth and apologize, otherwise his father would hold a grudge against the detectives. He was _very_ particular about his coffee. To insult his gourmet taste was to insult his person: fighting-words. "Papa," he said, stepping forward. "It's—"

"My fault. I spilled the bag last night," said Gil, swooping in. He lied so easily, without showing any nervous ticks; he didn't even blink. "Sorry, Francis. Al can go to the supermarket and buy more."

"Non, he'll get the wrong kind. That's why I want to go," Francis insisted.

He _was_ using it as an excuse to leave the house, Matt knew. But, loyal to a fault, he didn't criticize his father. Instead, he found himself nodding when Al looked to him for confirmation. Al seemed to trust Matt's word over the Frenchman's and, heaving a deeply dramatic sigh, said: "Fine! I'll take you to the damn supermarket."

"Not the supermarket, the international imports," Francis corrected, suddenly chipper now that he had won. He slipped into his long overcoat—it was chilly outside, leaves blowing; mid-October—and waved to Matt. "I'll be back soon, bébé. Is there anything you want? I'll get the lemon Madeleines you like," he smiled indulgently. Then he left. Al followed him, shrugging into his leather jacket, rolling his eyes.

The door had barely closed when Gil's cell-phone chirped like a peeping chick. Matt snorted; Gil grinned. He held it up: "Hallo, bruder. Wie geht es dir?" He spoke lazily in German, absently eyeing the ceiling as he listened: "Uh huh. Ja, uh huh. "Wirklich? Ja. Tschüss." He hung up and slipped the cell-phone into his back-pocket. "Mein little bruder needs to check the camera feeds, one of them is malfunctioning," he told Matt. "He's coming over."

"Oh, camera feed?" Matt asked, trying and failing to sound casual. Inadvertently his eyes scanned the entrance hall, searching for hidden cameras. He knew it was necessary, but he felt uncomfortable knowing that a team of strangers were watching him from across the street. _That means they've seen me spill coffee beans_ , _break mugs_ , _and walk into walls_ — _excellent_ , he thought, feeling embarrassed.

"Ja. It's for the surveillance team. There's dozens of them," Gil replied.

Matt hesitated. "There aren't any in my bedroom though... are there?"

"Is that a problem?" Gil asked cheekily. "Relax, there's not," he admitted, noting Matt's flushed face. "Afraid of having a bunch of guys watch you undress?"

 _No— well_ , _yes. But I'm more embarrassed about needing Gil to babysit me while I sleep_.

KNOCK. KNOCK. Playfully Gil stepped close to the door, and called: "What's the password?"

"Dummkopf, it's me. Let me in," said a deep, angry voice.

 _That's Gil's_ younger _brother_? Matt wondered in astonishment when the door revealed a big, muscular man with white-blonde hair, combed back neatly. He was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with ice-blue eyes and a stern-faced expression that didn't look at all like Gil's impish, sharp-featured face. _I wonder if they're half-brothers_ , he considered, making a mental-note to ask later. _That would explain why they look so completely different_. "Hello, I'm Matt Bonnefoi," he introduced himself, shaking the German's hand. It was strong and callused and there was a big scar on his forearm, like a chemical burn.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt," he returned, nodding politely.

"Mein little bruder," Gil smiled, punching Ludwig's shoulder in comradeship. Ludwig frowned. "So where's Kiku?" Gil asked, as if expecting someone to be hiding behind his big, broad-figured brother.

"He's at the house," Ludwig gestured across the road. Then he took a handheld police-radio and said: "Kiku?"

"Hai, I can hear you," a soft voice replied. "I need you to—"

Gil grabbed the radio and shouted into the receiver: "Hallo, Kiku!"

There was a moment of silence, recovery perhaps, before Kiku responded: "Konnichiwa, Gilbert."

Laughing, Gil tossed the radio back to Ludwig. "Last time I do that, I promise," he lied. When Ludwig only frowned, Gil exhaled like a puppy nobody wanted to play with, and said: "Matt and I'll just leave you to it then, ja?" He walked into the kitchen and Matt followed.

"He's your _younger_ brother, your full brother?" he asked in disbelief.

"Ja, he's two years younger," Gil replied absently, digging in the refrigerator for leftovers. "He looks exactly like mein Vater. I don't," he added needlessly. Standing again, he said: "I'm a _genetic mutation_ ," making air-quotes. "It means I'm special," he smiled in self-mockery. Then he pointed to a casserole dish: "Do you want some? Al made it. I don't know what it is exactly—hash-browns and bacon smothered in cheese, I think—but it's good." Before Matt could protest, Gil had shoveled-out two healthy servings onto two plates and stuck them into the microwave. "Do you have a big family?" he asked while waiting. "I know it's just you and your Vater, but what about extended family?"

"Non, not really. I have an adopted-cousin in Seychelles, but I haven't seen her since we were kids."

"Ja? I've got—" he paused, counting "—thirty-six first-cousins. My Vater is the family patron, he's the oldest. In Europe my family's all pretty close, less so in the Americas. It's fun cause we're all so competitive. Family reunions might as well be Civil Wars," he joked.

"Thirty-six? That sounds busy," Matt smiled. He would've been happy with just one sibling. He had always wanted a brother, someone to play with, fight with, and share secrets. Despite his schoolmates, he would never get to experience the connection siblings shared. Within the first few minutes of meeting Ludwig, Matt could tell that he and Gil were close; they trusted each other. It was something that he, as an only-child, had always wanted.

"It's not lonely," Gil agreed, collecting the plates. "Here— bon appetit!"

Matt was finishing his late-lunch when Ludwig returned. He eyed the half-empty casserole dish casually, and said (rather hopefully): "Kartoffel?"

Matt said: "Would you like some?"

He needn't have asked. Gil was already scooping out a generous helping onto a third plate. Ludwig sat down. "So what're the neighbours like?" Gil asked, punching microwave buttons. "I know that you know. You've already done a survey of the area, haven't you? Tell us," he begged, bouncing on his toes.

"I'm not supposed to disclose information that isn't necessary for the case," Ludwig said, respecting protocol. Gil pouted, holding the steaming plate of cheesy, bacon-sprinkled potatoes, and Ludwig balked. "Fine, but don't tell Kirkland I told you." Stabbing a forkful, he said: "The next-door neighbours to the right are Italian. They've got two sons: one in his last year of high-school, and one attending the local University. The whole family is loud and likes to throw big dinner-parties. Expect to have to decline an invitation, but be nice. The younger one's ein dummkopf, but he's harmless— sensitive. The neighbour to the left," he sighed unhappily, "is a frat-house owned by the University. It's currently being rented to six tenants, not all of whom get along." He shook his head. "If we weren't on a special, top-secret mission, we could bust them for half-a-dozen charges. The RA is a Spaniard doing Graduate Studies. I've spoken to him and he seems pleasant enough. He told me that the boys are loud but he'll keep them under control." Ludwig, however, sounded unconvinced. An alumni of a prestigious military-school, no doubt he thought the Spaniard's relaxed attitude and trust was displaced. "Kiku's keeping a close watch on that house, but otherwise it's a relatively safe neighbourhood," he reported. "You and your Vater should be perfectly safe, Mathew."

"Thank-you"—officer? detective?—"sir," he finished awkwardly. Gil snickered, but Ludwig seemed pleased.

The younger Beilschmidt left soon afterward, thanking Matt, even though Gil had served the potatoes, and dutifully returned to his post. Matt excused himself and retreated into the lounge. He nested comfortably into the big leather couch, kicked his legs onto the coffee-table, and braced his laptop against his knees. Gil sauntered in, thumbs hooked into his belt-loops. "Do you mind if I check the football score?" Matt gestured in accommodation, typing at his keyboard. Gil sat down on the opposite side of the couch and flipped the television on. Matt didn't follow soccer, but it looked like the Champions League; a German-owned team was playing. After a minute, satisfied with the unbalanced score, Gil said: "What're you working on?"

"Just schoolwork," Matt replied. "I was supposed to start at the University of Toronto this September, but because of what's happened with Ivan I can't attend fulltime so I'm taking a few courses online. I hope I can return to school for second-term, but it all depends on how long Papa and I have to stay here."

"The school doesn't know where you are though, do they?" Gil asked, frowning. "If Ivan knows that you're attending the University of Toronto, which he probably does, and can't find you on-campus he could hack into the Admissions' Office to track you down."

Matt shook his head. "Captain Kirkland has complete control of my account under an alias. Everything I receive or submit goes to him first and then he sends it to the University by special request. I'm not really sure how it works, but I've been told that my virtual tracks are covered. The only weird thing is—" he paused "—Captain Kirkland keeps proofreading my work. And if he doesn't think it's good enough he makes notes and sends it back."

Gil barked in laugher. "Ja, that sounds like the captain. He's kind of anal about paperwork. He was definitely the high-school prefect-type. He skipped a few grades in elementary school, I think."

It was half-past four o'clock when Al and Francis returned, blowing into the house like a gale: "Mathieu, où êtes-vous, mon chéri? Oh, there you are." Francis waltzed into the lounge, carrying a tin of lemon Madeleines, which he dropped in Matt's lap. "Est-ce que ça va?" he asked, kissing Matt's temple. Matt nodded. Francis invited himself onto the couch, sitting down between Matt and Gil. "Who's playing?" he asked, breaking into the tin while gesturing to the television. "Oh," he eyed the German team's colours, "I hope they lose."

"They won't lose because they're awesome," said Gil, matter-of-fact. "Best team in the league."

"Are you blind?" Francis countered. "Is your taste in football the same as your taste in food?" he mocked.

Gil retaliated in defense, pointing to the scoreboard in example. As he and Francis got into a soccer-centric argument, Al poked his wheat-blonde head into the lounge. He was carrying half-a-dozen bags and eyeing Francis like a slighted bellboy. "That's okay, I've got the bags!" he said sarcastically. Discretely Matt smiled and continued to type.

* * *

Mathieu, go to sleep," said Francis kindly. Matt started to shake his head but stopped in mid-yawn. It was only ten-thirty, but his body was ready to sleep again. Al had brought pizza home for supper, so there was no washing-up to do. It sat pleasantly in Matt's belly, making him feel lazy. Francis cocked his ash-blond head, guessing at Matt's hesitance. "Do you want to sleep with me tonight, chéri? It's a double-bed."

"Non, I'm fine," Matt said, feigning nonchalance. He didn't want to worry Francis, never-mind that he was incredibly embarrassed, afraid to sleep alone at eighteen. "Bonne nuit, Papa."

He climbed the staircase and met Gil on the second-level landing. He was freshly showered and dressed for bed— _un_ dressed, really—wearing boxer-shorts with a towel draped over his head, drying his winking silver-white hair; it stuck up wildly. He looked like a snowflake, all sharp angles and long, corded limbs; there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. His shoulders were narrow and his muscled stomach sloped into jutting hipbones, boxer-shorts hanging low. He looked like a fighter. There was a nasty age-old injury on his left pectoral just below his collarbone and a long scar on his forearm. His knuckles, too, were crosshatched with scars, and, like Ludwig's, his fingers were callused. His well-trained body was bigger than Matt's (for now—Matt was a teenager, still growing), but it had certainly seen more toil. "Oh, hey Matt," Gil said in surprise. Quickly he dropped the towel to cover his back, but too late. Matt inhaled in shock: Gil's back was strong and lean-muscled and covered in a splash of burn scars. "You're going to bed now?" he asked, pretending he hadn't seen Matt flinch. "Are you going to be okay by yourself?"

Quickly Matt looked down. "Oui."

"Okay, well... gute-nacht."

Matt retreated into his bedroom and closed the door, feeling suddenly cold. _The scars on Gil's back are just like the one on Ludwig's forearm_. He would have bet money that they had been inflicted at the same time. _I wonder what happened to them. The scars look old_ , _a childhood accident—_? What made Matt feel worse, however, was that Gil seemed to be self-conscious about his looks. Matt had only known the detective for twenty-four hours and already he had heard Gil make several self-degrading jokes, trying to overcompensate for his insecurities: that he was a scarred albino, physically smaller than his younger brother. But Gil always finished with a smile, and said: "It's okay because I'm awesome!" It was feigned self-confidence, which Matt recognized. He knew the feeling well. _But I don't avoid my own reflection in mirrors and dark windows_ , he thought, feeling sympathetic. He wouldn't pity Gil openly; the German's pride would be crushed. Honestly, Gil's confident mask was so well-constructed that Matt barely noticed his unusual appearance. He wasn't shy or awkward, and he didn't do anything to avoid attention. _He's not at all bad-looking_ , Matt considered. Though he could see how anyone might feel self-conscious standing beside someone as conventionally attractive as Al. But Matt really liked Gil's uniqueness, especially his eyes: _Red is my favourite colour_.

Thoughtfully Matt changed into a clean t-shirt to sleep in and then opened the window blinds. It was a calm, clear night and the moon was shining brightly. The house was located in a cul-de-sac and his window faced the Italian house, less than twenty feet apart. He sighed and let himself fall backwards onto the bed, legs kicked up. His body was tired, but his mind was wide awake. Lying down, his feelings of anxiety returned.

 _What is it about_ me _that Ivan likes so much_? he wondered. _Why not go after someone lower-profile_ , _or someone more attractive_ , _like Al or Papa_? Ivan was closer to Francis' age than Matt's, after all (though Francis was only thirty-six, young to have an eighteen-year-old son). _I'm really not that exciting a person_ , Matt thought honestly. _Why did he choose me_?

Matt tossed-and-turned, trying to relax, but he couldn't keep his eyes closed. Every time he heard something: the house creaking, the wind blowing, the crickets chirping, his eyes snapped open, on-guard. _This is ridiculous. It's just in my head_ , he knew, but knowing only made him feel foolish. He missed the security of having someone beside him, but he didn't want to worry Francis, who was already stressed. _I'm not a child_ , _I can sleep by myself_! he thought. Determined, he screwed his eyes shut and buried his head.

* * *

Gil stretched, cracking his back and then his neck. It was three o'clock in the morning. He had only slept for five hours but he felt fine. He wasn't somebody who napped or slept for pleasure. He would rather be awake, whether productive or not. He got up and tugged on his jeans, then wandered into the hallway. He reached for the washroom door just as it swung open, revealing Matt, who looked bedraggled. _Fuck_! _I should've put a shirt on before leaving my bedroom_ , but he hadn't been expecting anyone to be awake. _Should've known better_ , he realized. _Matt's still not sleeping._

"Oh, sorry. I'll just..." Matt bowed his head and tried to sneak by unobtrusively, but before he reached his bedroom Gil said:

"Matt, do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

The boy stopped in the doorframe; his posture was tense. Slowly he looked over-the-shoulder, big violet eyes uncertain. The moonlight cast a bright light over him, making his soft curls look silvery, shadowing his young face. He looked conflicted: pride fighting fear. Then finally, quietly, he said: "Oui."

Wordlessly, Gil followed Matt into his bedroom.


	4. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **THREE**

Guten morgen, sunshine." Gil smiled. Matt blinked at him, then shifted away and buried his face in a pillow. He had been lying against Gil's side, hugging him, looking adorable, rosy-cheeked and bathed in sunlight. Gil had felt peaceful sitting in bed ( _and yes_ , _watching Matt sleep_ ). He hadn't been restless at all, not bored. "I learned something about you last night," he said, teasing Matt's embarrassment. Matt peeked up at him. Gil leaned down in provocation. "You're not overly affectionate when you're awake, but when you're asleep... the French in you really comes out," he winked. Then he chuckled, because he got what he wanted: Matt blushed and his lips formed a perfect O of surprise, violet eyes big and beautiful.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said shyly, covering his face. "You didn't have to stay all night."

Gil kicked his long legs over the bed, standing. "Forget it, Mattie. You're my job, my client. You're the most important thing in my life right now. If you want to cuddle it's not my place to deny you that privilege—" He ducked when Matt fired a pillow at him. The boy crawled to his knees on the bed, and said:

"Stop it! You're making me sound like a lame romance novel!"

Gil wiggled his eyebrows. "Does that make me the dead-sexy cop who seduces the innocent protagonist?"

Matt grabbed another pillow and threw himself at Gil, whacking him repeatedly. He yelled when Gil tackled him, falling backwards onto the mattress; shouts of denial melted into a fit of laughter. Matt's skin was cool and soft. Gil pried the pillow from his hands and mussed-up his curls. Then the door opened:

"Oh, jeeze." Al exhaled. He stood in the doorway, half-naked and holding his gun, which he quickly lowered. "The next time you shriek you'd better be in genuine danger," he said to Matt unhappily, tired. Matt scrambled off the bed and apologized profusely, smile shrinking in unease. Gil wished that Al hadn't interrupted. His partner sighed and retreated, headed back to bed—or so Gil assumed. He wasn't expecting to find Al waiting in the hallway for him. He crossed his arms, hip cocked. It was hard to look serious while half-naked, but Al managed it. "Flirting with the victim is a bad idea, _you_ taught me that, remember?"

"Flirting? That wasn't _flirting_ ," Gil denied. "I was just teasing him, just fooling around. I don't—"

"Have a crush on an assault-victim? Or is he a harassment-victim since Braginsky didn't actually hurt him?" Al pretended to think, belittling Gil's behaviour. "What do you call a victim of near-kidnapping? I feel like there's a special word for that, it's on the tip of my tongue—"

"Okay, danke Al!" Gil snapped. "I get it. I'll be more careful."

"Good. He's cute and he's sweet," Al allowed, "but he's also the target of a madman. Don't get involved beyond the job, okay? Besides, you're lucky I caught you and not Francis. He's facing assault charges for exactly _that_ reason," he pointed to Matt's bedroom door. "Bat-shit crazy Russian or horny detective, somehow I don't think he wants either of you touching his son. And also," he gestured, "since when do you walk around without a shirt on? Hey, I'm just looking out for you, like you used to do for me."

"Al, it's fine," said Gil, crossing his arms. "Really, I'm not stupid. I was just playing with him."

Al eyed him, searching his face for falsity. Then he nodded. "Next time play a less full-contact game, okay?"

* * *

That night, Gil convinced Matt to sleep with Francis. "I know you don't want to worry him," he acknowledged, "but I think you're running that risk regardless. You're his only child, after all. Of course he's going to worry about you. But he'll probably feel a lot better knowing that you're right there beside him." Goaded into compliance, Matt agreed. He couldn't deny Gil's logic, even if it did make him feel like a child. _It's better like this_ : _Francis and Matt will both sleep soundly and I won't be tempted to watch or touch him_. Gil was proud of his self-control, but it was strange worrying about such a thing. He was a law-enforcement officer, and, spontaneous pillow-fight aside, he was actually really good at maintaining an objective opinion when he worked a case. He was usually good at keeping his distance.

 _I've been hit-on loads of times before_ ( _when Al was unavailable_ ), _sometimes by really attractive women in total distress_. He had only gotten in trouble once with a pretty Hungarian girl when he was younger, his first-year on the force, but fortunately Gil had gotten off on a technicality and her husband hadn't pressed charges. _I'm not going through that again_ , he decided. It had almost cost him his job, which is why he had always been so insistent with Al, lecturing and warning him away from clients. It was shameful, the number of women that flirted with Al when they went door-to-door.

 _I wasn't flirting with Matt_ , _we were just playing_ , he thought. _Ludwig and I wrestle together all the time_. Of course, he had had to start cheating in order to beat his younger brother, such a schooled fighter. As soon as Ludwig pinned Gil it was over. Matt, however, was lightweight and willowy and his teenage body was still smaller than Gil's. His swings were erratic and energetic, innocent. It wasn't about pride. He wasn't trying to win or lose, he just wanted to play. Wrestling with him, Gil felt as if he had seen a glimpse of who Matt really was before this mess had started: a sweet, laidback boy who embarrassed easily and liked to have fun. He wasn't spiteful and didn't hold grudges. He was forgiving. He couldn't even be convinced that Ivan, his stalker, was truly bad. _I can't decide if that's admirable or just stupid_. He would never verbally accuse a victim of encouraging an attack, _but_ _it's no wonder Braginsky chose Matt_. _What kind of a sick bastard takes advantage of someone's kindness like that_? He knew the Russian's moral compass didn't exactly point North, but still— _It's just wrong_!

* * *

It was a week later, when Gil was enamoured by the football game, and Al was napping, that Matt answered the front door. He knew he wasn't supposed to, but he was walking by when someone knocked and he answered it in reflex:

"Ciao! I'm Feliciano Vargas, your neighbour," said a jaunty, tawny-haired boy. "You're new, aren't you? I'm sorry my family hasn't been over to introduce ourselves yet, but I was walking home from school and saw your car in the driveway so I thought I'd stop by." He smiled. "I hope that's okay?"

"Oh oui, bonjour— hello," Matt stuttered, overwhelmed by the boy's enthusiasm. "I'm Matt Williams," he said. It sounded strange using the alias. "It's nice to meet you, do you live next-door?" he pretended not to know.

Feliciano nodded, launching into a monologue about his whole family, giving anecdotes about his Grandpa and older brother. "I'm a twelfth-grader in high-school," he pointed, presumably in the local high-school's direction. "Are you in high-school? Or are you attending the University? What classes are you taking? Oh! My fratello, Lovino, goes there. I'll tell him to look for you. It's a small campus."

"Actually, I do all of my schooling online," Matt explained, hoping the Italian wouldn't ask too many questions. Matt wasn't bad at lying, but he hated doing it.

Feliciano's pretty amber eyes widened and he nodded. "You must study really hard then because I never see you leave the house. Your Padre and fratello do though, I've seen them in town. They're both so handsome— so are you," the high-schooler smiled kindly.

 _My fratello— brother_? Matt thought, confused. _Oh_! _He must've seen Al with Papa in town._ He was flattered that someone as stylish as Feliciano thought Matt was attractive enough to be Al's younger brother. It wasn't part of the back-story that Arthur had created for him, _but what harm could it do pretending that Al's my brother_? He was about to reply, when Feliciano continued:  
"And that white-haired man who's always with you, is he your boyfriend?"

Taken aback—that was _definitely_ not part of his false back-story—Matt said: "Why would you think that?"

"Because you sleep together in the same bed," he said (not in the least awkward or shy). "Our windows face each other and you usually leave the blinds up," he added. "I think you're really cute together. I really like his accent," he smiled. "Does he live with you and your family?"

Matt struggled to reply, to deny the misinterpretation. But Gil, drawn by the unfamiliar sound of Feliciano's voice, interrupted: "Ja, I do," he said, casually resting his hand on Matt's shoulder. "I'm Gilbert. And you are—?"

"Ciao! I'm Feliciano Vargas, it's really nice to meet you," he said, shaking Gil's free hand. "You two should definitely come to my house for pasta, I'll cook!"

Matt flushed, acutely aware of Gil's hand gently squeezing his shoulder. He started to deny Feliciano's invitation, just as Ludwig had instructed: "Oh, actually I—"

"Meine Mattie can't eat pasta," Gil lied, shrugging in apology.

Feliciano's brow furrowed, looking at Matt in genuine pity. "Oh, that's so sad!" he sympathized.

"Ja," Gil agreed. "But do you know who loves pasta? Meine bruder— a big, blonde guy, you've seen him? Gut. The next time you see him you should definitely invite him over, wouldn't that be fun? Don't take no for an answer, he'll not want to impose. He'll lie about having to work but he really does _love_ pasta," he lied again, grinning playfully. Matt turned his face toward Gil's shoulder and bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Ludwig wouldn't be happy about having to entertain the high-schooler; Gil was throwing him into uncharted territory on purpose. "He would be so happy to join you, and he could use a good meal and a break, okay?"

Feliciano beamed. "Oh, sí! I've seen him, I'll ask him for sure."

After Feliciano had left, skipping down the footpath, Matt shut the door and said: "You did that on purpose."

"Of course I did," Gil replied proudly. "Ludwig thinks that boy is unbearably annoying, it'll be hilarious if he has to spend a whole evening with him. Besides, it's better if someone keeps an eye on him"—Feliciano—"he's weirdly perceptive," he said seriously. "Fortunately, he seems to be a total airhead. But if he tells the right information to the wrong people it could become a problem. Ludwig can scout-out the family and keep an eye on that boy. Fick, he's so ridiculously friendly he might even make Ludwig smile, wouldn't that be a feat?"

They were interrupted by Francis: "Gilbert, are you ready to go?" he said, folding a scarf around his neck as he descended the stairs. "I'm supposed to be at the doctor's office in fifteen minutes. I'm going to be late if you don't hurry up," he complained. Gil rolled his eyes, promising that he was—many things, but— _never_ late. "Mathieu, chéri," he adding, noting Matt's presence, "would you like anything from town? I'm going to stop at the supermarket to get fresh produce for supper tonight—"

"Hey, I'm the one driving. I didn't say we were stopping," said Gil in annoyance.

"—is there anything in particular you want?" Francis finished.

Matt shook his head, trying not to smile at the faces Gil was making behind Francis' back. "Non, merci. Are you having the doctor check your stitches?" he asked in concern. He knew that Francis' injury troubled him, especially at night when he was trying to sleep. Ivan's weapon of choice, a broken water spigot, had penetrated deep.

"Oui, but don't worry about it," Francis smiled, kissing Matt in reassurance. "It's just a routine check-up, I'll be fine. If I'm lucky he'll prescribe me some more painkillers," he added, only half-joking. "À tout à l'heure, chéri."

Gil followed him out, swinging his car keys around his index finger. Matt heard them bickering at each other as soon as the front door closed, but it was in jest. Francis was unquestionably high-maintenance and had been for as long as Matt had been alive, expecting—not selfishly, but naturally—to get his way. It frustrated people like Al, who was (almost) as equally demanding in his own sense, but Gil got along with both of them just fine because he never took either of them too seriously. Despite his strict, militant upbringing, Gil was laidback. He didn't worry about the little things and was actually quite hard to offend. In turn, he seemed to make fun of everyone equally; not a bully in the traditional sense, more like an obnoxious sibling. That, and the fact that Feliciano had mistaken the foursome for a family, made Matt smile. He really liked living in such a full, loud household.

Matt walked into the lounge, intending to collect his laptop, but Al was stretched-out on the couch, sleeping. He yawned loudly and stretched his whole body, flinching when his back cracked (disliking the noise), and blinked at Matt. He was definitely the sort of person who could sleep anytime, anywhere. "Where're Gil and Francis?" he asked, yawning again.

Matt folded his arms. "They left hours ago," he lied, pretending to be shocked. "Some bodyguard you are, sleeping on the job. I could've been abducted and you wouldn't even know."

Al blinked. "They just left, didn't they?" When Matt nodded Al kicked his legs over the couch and stood. He approached Matt, proximity making him look big and intimidating, and said: "I am, in fact, an _excellent_ detective and bodyguard." And he tapped Matt's nose condescendingly.

"Touché," said Matt. Al inclined his head, like a gentleman in thanks.

Matt flopped down on the leather-couch, collecting his laptop. Al was walking out when Matt's helpless sigh drew his attention. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Captain Kirkland has started grading my assignments himself. Then he returns them with notes like: " _This is an B-grade paper_ , _but I know you can do better._ " Al snorted. Matt said: "Sue me if I was a little tired when I wrote it last night! I know he's only trying to help. Actually, my grade-point average has increased since he started refusing to submit anything but perfect work for me, but it's a little exhausting."

" _Captain Kirkland_ is a little exhausting," Al corrected. "I mean, he's a good leader—don't tell him I said that—but he's high-strung and he never stops working. Just watching him makes me tired. Everybody needs a break, including you," he added, nodding to Matt's laptop. "Every day you're typing away on that thing. I'm surprised you don't type in your sleep— or do you? Anyway," he shrugged, "just take the afternoon off to relax."

Matt considered Al's advice. He glanced between his laptop and the television, and said: "Yeah, okay." Before Al could leave, he added: "Do you maybe want to watch a film with me?" Matt hated watching television alone. He preferred to share the experience with someone else, whether he had seen the feature once or a thousand times. Watching television alone always made him feel unfoundedly guilty, like he was wasting time that should be spent on something more productive. He shrugged invitingly, awaiting Al's answer.

"In English?" Al asked, intrigued yet suspicious. Matt nodded. "Sure, I love movies," he said, returning to the couch. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Well... do you like the Marvel films?"

Al smiled: "Fuck yeah, I do. Have you got them all? Sweet! I'm feeling a Marvel marathon, what'd you say?"

* * *

Gil had a throbbing headache by the time he and Francis returned at six o'clock. Now he knew how Al felt when he played chauffeur, catering to the Frenchman's desires. Despite his friendliness, Francis was _very_ particular about the quality of everything, especially food. They had spent almost two hours in the supermarket. Though Gil supposed it was Francis' way of milking his time outside the house. He hated being on house-arrest. As Gil parked the car, he said: "Carry your own damn bags," and dragged his feet into the house. He stripped off his jacket, throwing it atop Al's over the railing, and then slouched into the lounge. Inside he was confused by what he found: Al and Matt were sitting together on the couch, arguing about super-villains as a film played on the television. There were capsized pillows on the floor beside a tin of lemon Madeleines, and an empty carton of ice-cream with two spoons sitting on the coffee-table. "Err... what're you doing?"

"Marvel marathon," Al pointed to the television. He was leaning back, legs kicked up on the coffee-table and facing Matt; Matt sat beside him, sucking salt from his fingers. There was a half-eaten bag of seasoned crisps between them. Gil swallowed, his mind going unexpectedly to the gutter as he watched Matt lick his fingertips. Fortunately, Al continued: "I'd invite you to join us but you're kind of a killjoy when it comes to movies."

"Nein, I'm not." Gil suddenly felt the urge to defend himself for Matt's benefit. "I just get bored when you start chattering on like a monkey. Besides, films are all so predictable— usually," he added, noting Matt's curious face. He didn't want to insult the boy's taste. "Anyway, you should have a lie-down before your shift starts, Al. Otherwise you'll be a nightmare to work with. Don't even deny it," he interrupted Al's protest, "we both know you turn into a monster when you're tired, or hungry— I'll call you for supper."

Grudgingly, Al stood. "A monster like the Hulk," he said proudly, walking out.

"Ja, whatever," Gil dismissed, clueless. When they were children he used to tell Ludwig ghost stories, but since then he had always subconsciously favoured logic, not fiction. Feeling tired, he pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering if he could steal some of Francis' high-potent painkillers for his headache.

Matt said: "I'll turn this off," reaching for the remote. "I think there's a soccer game on if you want?"

"Nein, it's fine," Gil dismissed, feeling guilty. "Go ahead and finish watching it, I'll just..." He looked at Matt, lying on the big leather-couch all alone, licking salt from his fingers. Again he swallowed; his throat felt dry. "Actually, I've never seen these films before— do you mind?" he asked, gesturing to Al's vacated spot. Matt nodded, pulling his legs up to give Gil more space. Gil wished he hadn't, but sat down anyway. "You'll have to explain it to me," he said, gesturing to the television, "otherwise I won't know what's going on and I'm liable to get bored."

Matt, however, wasn't perturbed. He looked almost excited: "Sure."

Unfortunately, Gil was wrong. He did get bored—of the film, not Matt's company. He sat for two-and-a-half hours listening to Matt's soft voice explain the plot, the characters; watching the boy's pretty face light up in delight as he talked, gesturing. It's no wonder that he and Al had bonded over Marvel films. Matt seemed just as keen for them as Al was and took great interest in sharing his theories with Gil, who couldn't help but smile. "Awe, you're just a little nerd, aren't you?" he teased, patting Matt's leg in mock-sympathy. He loved the way Matt pouted in feigned insult; it was adorable. _Oh Gott_ , _this isn't good_ , he thought. Practising self-restraint, he removed his hand from Matt's leg. Just in time, too, as Ludwig suddenly walked in:

"Gilbert, was zum teufel?!" he yelled, red-faced in anger. "Because of you, I'm spending the evening with die Italienische dummkopf next-door. I hope you find it _very_ funny!"

"I do in fact," said Gil, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Ludwig glared. "Oh, c'mon. Stop clenching or you'll give yourself a brain hemorrhage," he said, then proceeded to explain the situation. "Call this a reconnaissance mission, you'll be collecting information on a potential threat." Gil knew his brother well, and making a dinner-date sound like work was exactly the right thing to say to entice Ludwig, who sighed in agreement.

"Ja, alright," he ceded to Gil's logic. "I'll go and assess the situation."

"Woe, slow down, little bruder. You'll be beating him off with that kind of language," Gil joked, mocking Ludwig's dry nature. "C'mon, he's kind of cute," he added in appeasement. "You might even enjoy yourself tonight."

"Traitor," Ludwig said flatly, then left. He passed Francis on the way out:

"Supper's almost ready," he said. Stonily, he eyed Gil and Matt on the couch together. "Mathieu, chéri, will you please set the table? Merci." Gil started to follow Matt out, but Francis said: "Détective, might I have a word in private? It's about your interest in my son," he said after Matt had left. "I appreciate that you're here to protect him, but I can't help but wonder about your intensions, which have been a little disconcerting lately."

"My intensions?" Gil repeated, slightly off-put. "Well I _intend_ to keep him safe. That's why I'm here."

"Oui, it is why you're here. To guard him. Not to sleep with him; not to befriend him, and flirt with him; not to stare at him like a horny teenager," Francis warned.

Gil stuttered, taken aback: "I wasn't—"

"Please don't deny it," Francis shook his head. "I have eyes, I can see how perfect mon Mathieu is," he said overindulgently. "Do you think you're the first person who's ever leered at him like dessert? Do you know how many of my own colleagues I've caught trying to seduce my son at parties and social functions?" he asked, stepping closer. "Do you know that attacking Ivan isn't my first assault charge? Mathieu is young and innocent and I'll do anything to keep him that way. He's mon ange. I'm grateful to you and Alfred for helping us, Détective, but I trust you understand the implications of your position. You're one of the few people who know what's happened to my son and how frightening these past few weeks have been for him. If I catch you trying to take advantage of his vulnerability," Francis threatened, leaning down, "your job won't be the only thing you lose. Am I clear?"

Gil blinked, feeling surprisingly intimidated by the Frenchman's threat and the power of his position. Not his political position, but his paternal one. There was no question about his blatant intentions. His intense blue-eyed gaze promised retribution to anyone who hurt his son. Having gotten to know Matt, Gil understood and couldn't deny that Francis' fear was, mostly certainly, founded (even without the threat of Ivan). Feeling ashamed of himself for being so careless and unprofessional—lusting after Matt, a victim—he nodded solemnly, and said: "Ja, crystal."

* * *

Before Gil relieved Al's shift he poked his head outside: "Hey, Ludwig!" he called quietly. Having spent the evening being fed and entertained by an eccentric Italian family, Ludwig was on his way back across the road. When he heard his name, however, he stopped, hands resting casually in his pockets. He waited for Gil to sneak out, meeting him on the doorstep. "Looks like you survived die dummkopf," Gil said smugly, fishing for details.

"Ja, it was fine," Ludwig said ambiguously. "They're a very welcoming family. I've been invited to return for lunch tomorrow"—Saturday, Feliciano wanted to cook for Ludwig. Ludwig played distain quite well, but Gil couldn't help but notice how he refused to meet his red-eyed gaze. He knew how shy Ludwig was in terms of his own feelings, and so resisted the urge to tease his little brother. "Feliciano is a weird boy, but not awful," he admitted.

"Das ist gut," said Gil, wanting to taunt Ludwig with _I-told-you-so_. Biting his tongue, he wished his brother "gute-nacht" and returned to the house. Secretly, he hoped that Ludwig would relax and enjoy himself tomorrow with Feliciano. He worked hard and deserved to be treated. Absently Gil found himself wondering if Feliciano would accept Ludwig's stereotypically-German nature or be turned-off by it. Gil hoped for the former. Neither he nor Ludwig had many friends in New York, which is perhaps why Gil was so fond of Al, his partner—and so beguiled by Matt. _I wonder what would've happened if I had met Matt on the street somewhere instead of on a case_. _Probably nothing_ , he realized. He had had a few dates in the past, a few half-forgotten nights he would rather not remember, but it had always been the job that got his blood pumping. _I wouldn't have looked twice at Matt on the street_ , he presumed, too focused on work. _It's only because Matt_ is _the job that I feel so attracted to him. Maybe that's just my type_ : _first Elizabeta_ , _now Mattie. I have a taste for victims_ , he thought in defeat. _I only want him because I can't have him_.

Re-entering the house, he decided that Francis was right: It was better for everyone involved that he kept his distance from Matt. _No more sleeping together_. _No more coddling him. No more pretending to be his friend._ _It's my job to keep him safe and that's what I'm going to do. That and nothing more._


	5. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **FOUR**

 **TWO WEEKS LATER**

Gil, how did you get the scars on your back?" Matt asked. It was a quiet, shy question that took Gil off-guard.

"It's not a good story," he said evasively, making to leave the kitchen. Over the past two weeks he had avoided being alone with Matt as much as possible, which meant leaving rooms when he entered. Now, holding a bowl of leftovers, he gave the boy lots of space, trying to avoid direct contact as he moved around him toward the exit. It was ten o'clock at night and Matt was freshly showered. His skin was flushed pink with heat, which made his eyes look exceptionally violet. He stood in shorts and a t-shirt that hung in folds from his willowy frame, revealing his slender neck and collarbone slicked with damp, pale-blonde curls. _Just walk away_ , Gil advised himself, afraid of lingering too long. Since he had decided to avoid interacting with Matt, the boy was all he could think about (not always PG-rated). However, he stopped in the doorway when Matt called his name:

"Have I done something wrong?" he asked, confused. "It's just... you've been avoiding me for a while now and I don't know why. It's kind of a big house," he attempted a smile. "It gets a bit lonely during the day..."

Gil cursed: _Fuck_! Hewas usually good at faking his intentions, masking his emotions, but he couldn't seem to do it where Matt was concerned. Al and Francis had already guessed at his feelings (though both had accused him of only lusting after Matt, which wasn't entirely untrue); he would hate himself if Matt realized it too.

"I thought we were friends," Matt added, filling the silence. He had clearly worked-up the nerve to address Gil. His already flushed cheeks blushed pink.

Gil swallowed, feeling conflicted. He wanted nothing more than to grab Matt and kiss him, but instead he said: "I don't think that's such a good idea. You're in witness protection, Mattie, and I'm a detective. When this is all over we won't be able to see each other anymore. I think it's best if we remember that."

"Oh." Matt's face fell, looking lost. But he nodded, plastering on a fake smile: "Okay. I didn't think of it that way, you're right. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Okay, nein!" Gil hurried, blocking Matt's retreat. "Fick, Mattie. You're too ficking sweet! Can't you at least yell at me, or insult me, or something?"

Matt lifted an eyebrow skeptically, lip curling slightly in genuine amusement. "Why—?"

"Because when you look at me with those big, violet eyes I feel like I've just kicked a puppy," Gil admitted. Softly, Matt laughed. It was such a lovely sound and Gil had discovered that he had a talent for making Matt laugh. It made his heart ache, thinking about what he couldn't—shouldn't—do.

"It's okay, I understand," said Matt fondly. "I'm disappointed, of course, but I can be realistic. Thank-you for always taking care of me, Detective."

Gil's stomach clenched as Matt walked away. Those honest, innocent words coming from such soft, supple lips shook his resolve. It affected him physically, making him uncomfortably hot. Dare he even say aroused? _I'm just hard-up for sex_ , he thought. It had been a long time since he had been sexually satisfied. _I'm just desperate to get laid and I'm focusing that frustration on Matt because he's the only eligible one here_ , he lied, ignoring how adorable he found the Canadian boy; how kind, and clever, and fun. He inhaled, pressing a fist to his lips and silently counted to regain his composure. Only when he trusted himself not to chase after Matt did he let himself breathe again. Potential crisis averted, he sighed. But his genitalia disagreed— _Oh fuck_.

* * *

Ten minutes later— _well_ , _that was embarrassingly short_ —having relieved himself temporarily, Gil headed outside for a cigarette (which he had stolen from Francis). He tapped one out of the carton, lit the end, and sucked in, savouring the nicotine's sweet poison. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long time before exhaling. It was a cool, windy night. He stood on the back porch, leaning against the house. The stars were brighter here than in the city and he searched the sky for constellations he knew by name while absently smoking his cigarette. It worked, he felt much calmer than before. He was on his second cigarette when something next-door caught his attention, a noise like a soft whimper. He could see shadows beneath the overhang, two people locked in an intimate embrace. _I shouldn't be spying on them_ , he knew, afraid to admit that those whispered moans and sighs aroused him. But he didn't move, not until a familiar voice met his ears.

 _Is that Ludwig—_?! Gil dropped his cigarette in surprise. There was no mistaking his brother's deep baritone talking quietly to Feliciano, who stood on his tiptoes and leaned up to meet Ludwig's lips. Quickly Gil retreated inside, feeling shocked, embarrassed, and not a little bit jealous. He was so distracted by what he had witnessed that he didn't notice Matt until he crashed into him. "Fick! Watch where you're going!" he snapped, flustered.

Matt blinked, taken aback. "S-sorry..." he stuttered, and hurried upstairs.

In defeat, Gil banged his head against the wall: "Fick."

* * *

Matt hugged his pillow but couldn't sleep. He felt restless, cooped-up for too long with nothing to do except study, read, and re-watch films. Too rested, growing lazy, his body craved physical activity. He wanted more than anything to run, but knew he couldn't leave the house. The first week had been fine because he had had Gil to keep him company, but since the German had decided to retract his friendship Matt had started to feel lonely. He couldn't contact any of his schoolmates or friends from Canada, and, despite Francis' attempts to quell Matt's boredom, there were just certain topics a boy didn't discuss with his father: like how attracted he was to a red-eyed detective. It was a relatively new self-discovery. Gil's distance had affected Matt more than he wanted to admit, feeling like he had lost something important. It hurt. Increasingly he had caught himself thinking about the German at the most random and inopportune times (including a shocking shower incident that he was still refusing to acknowledge). Despite being an eighteen-year-old boy, he had never given much thought to sex beyond healthy curiosity. In high-school he and his friends had often talked, of course, but it had always been hypothetical (at least, from Matt's perspective). He wasn't embarrassed by his virginity, but, truth be told, he wouldn't have said no to a little experimentation if given the opportunity with someone he actually liked. Francis believed in a healthy expression of sexuality, unafraid to blatantly display his feelings and desires, but he didn't approve of casual sex parading as love.

"Love should be cherished above all else," he lectured. "In whatever form it takes, it's worth more than anything else in the world."

 _How did I go from thinking about Gil t0 sex to love_? Matt's heartbeat inadvertently skipped. He shifted in bed, feeling too hot; his cheeks were flushed. He hugged his pillow closer, burying his face. It smelled like laundry detergent and Francis' soap, a nice lily-soft scent. It was very different from Gil's more masculine scent. Matt slept soundly with Francis, but couldn't deny that he missed Gil's body beside him, guarding him. Despite his behaviour and foul language, he was a surprisingly tender person. His callused hands were always so gentle with Matt—afraid of hurting him, perhaps—and his voice was husky, never raised in anger. _Except just now_ , _downstairs_ , he remembered, heart sinking. Gil had been uncharacteristically flustered: _I wonder why_?

"Mathieu, arrête," said Francis drowsily. He pushed himself onto his elbows and looked down at Matt. "Is something wrong, chéri? You're fidgeting, can't you sleep?"

"Non, je suis désolé, Papa. I'll be right back." Matt crawled out of bed and, grabbing his zip-up hoodie, left the bedroom. He pulled the hood up, letting the sleeves hang below his fingertips, and snuck downstairs barefoot in his boxer-shorts. Dodging the kitchen light, he slipped outside into the back-garden, staying in the house's shadow. He sighed, enjoying the cool breeze that licked his skin. The stars weren't as bright here as they were farther North, but it was quiet—until a boy crashed clumsily through the evergreens. Matt flinched in surprise. "Err... hello," he called. It seemed like the right thing to do.

"Shit-stupid-bastardo! I mean— ciao," he said, noticing Matt. The instant he lifted his head Matt knew that he was talking to Feliciano's brother, Lovino. The elder Vargas' colouring was darker, but, aside from an obvious difference in demeanour, he and Feliciano looked almost identical.

"You're Lovino, right? Why are you sneaking through the garden?" said Matt, breaking the extended silence.

Lovino tensed, glancing sideways. He was holding most of his clothes, wearing only a pair of kneeless blue-jeans, which hung low. His cat-like hazel eyes looked anxious, and not a little suspicious. "None of your business—"

"Lovi, amorcito, wait— _ouch_!" The Spaniard tripped on an upraised root and fell to his knees. In reflex, Lovino flinched. He mumbled in quiet concern, which seemed to cheer the Spaniard's mood. "I'm fine," he smiled, taking Lovino's hand, grudgingly offered. When the Italian's gaze shifted to indicate Matt's presence, the Spaniard blinked in surprise: "Oh, hola. I'm Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo, the RA next-door. Who're you?"

"Matt Williams. I live here," he pointed needlessly.

"It's nice to meet you." Antonio smiled, unbothered by the scandalous implications of he and Lovino having crawled through the shrubbery together half-naked. "You know, Matt, you look really familiar." He cocked his coffee-brown head, green eyes curious. "Have I seen you on campus? I tutor a class on 21st century international relations focusing on politics between North America and Western Europe. Maybe that's where—?"

"Oh, that's great..." Just great. If Antonio recognized Matt as Francis Bonnefoi's son, he was screwed. "But I don't attend the University. Maybe you've seen my brother on the street."

Antonio looked thoughtful. "Sí, that must've been it."

Feeling intrusive, Matt excused himself quickly and slipped back inside. As he closed the curtains, he saw Antonio steal a passionate goodnight kiss from Lovino, who closed his eyes and leaned into the Spaniard's embrace. They parted like two Shakespearean lovers; Lovino tiptoed home, while Antonio returned through the evergreens to the frat-house. Matt felt odd about the encounter. If Lovino's anxiety was a telling feature, the love-affair was secret. Matt wondered if Feliciano knew. It was, most likely, unsuitable for a Master's student and RA to fancy a first-year. Though, the thrill of getting caught in a forbidden relationship seemed rather exciting.

"Matt?" said Gil's voice. Matt whipped around. "You didn't go outside, did you?"

"No— well, yes. I'm sorry. But I'm going back to bed now, I just— I'm sorry," he repeated, and quickly left.

* * *

It was a few days later and they were having lunch. Gil watched, half-desperate, half-horrified, as Matt lifted a big, red sausage between his fingertips—no bun or condiments—and innocently sucked the juices from the end. "Mm, it's so good," he said softly, as juice coated his lips, rolling down his chin.

Gil dropped his fork and stood, hurrying for the door. Francis said: "You're the one who cooked these horrid wurst, aren't you going to eat any?"

"Nein! I mean, ja— later!" Gil snapped, running to safety. He heard Matt say:

"That was odd. Is he feeling ill?"

"Non, Mathieu. Just finish your lunch, cher."

Gil practically ran through the lounge to the back door. His heart was pounding so hard, breathing fast, and his white skin was flushed red in embarrassment; blood hot in arousal. He didn't notice Al lying on the couch until the American asked what the trouble was. Gil gasped: "Need fresh air!" When Al said: "It's raining," Gil replied: "Gut." He stepped out and closed the door behind him, then lifted his face to the sky. He closed his eyes as cold raindrops pelted his face, cooling his skin, and he sighed in relief. _That was just mean_ , he thought, accusing some higher-power. _Why_? _Why would you do that to me_? He had barely made it out of the kitchen in time, fighting nature. If he had of watched Matt's supple lips suck that sausage any longer he would be hard as a rock right now.

Just then an umbrella covered him, and Al said: "Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

Gil swallowed, and said: "I need to get laid, Al. Please help me."

Al frowned. "Help you how?"

"Take my shift tonight, _please_?" he begged. "I just need to get out of here for a while."

He didn't realize how desperately he felt until the words left his mouth. He turned and faced Al imploringly, ready to renegotiate if need be. In truth, Al could've asked for a kidney just then and Gil would've happily obliged. _I just need satisfaction_ , _release from this awful yearning._ He didn't usually partake in one-night stands, and when he did he was inordinately pissed. He rarely remembered much the following morning and almost always left before his bedmate awoke to remind him. It was just no-strings-attached sex, _which is exactly what I need now_.

Al was silent for a long time. Gil knew that he didn't partake in, nor particularly approve of, casual sex. Despite his age and occupation, Al was a rather innocent kid—like the superheroes he so idolized. Al liked to tease Gil about his chivalrous nature: "like a knight-in-shining-armour!" and Gil always retaliated by calling-out Al's would-be hero-complex: "like a comic-book character!" And they would both walk away, secretly smiling, because that's who Al was: the friend whose moral compass always pointed North. If Gil was going to trust anyone other than Ludwig with a secret, it would be Al—and vise-versa. Recently, while inebriated beyond all reckoning, Al had confessed to Gil that he was madly in love but unable to act. He had never disclosed the identity of his unrequited love, but Gil knew Al well enough by now to know that the boy's heart skipped a beat whenever Arthur Kirkland's name was mentioned. It was a secret that Gil would take to the grave if Al let him, in return for Al's friendship and trust.

Finally, Al said: "Kirkland will give us hell if he finds out you left for a night to get laid, but..." he looked back at the house, indicating its occupants, "I understand how hard this is for you, no pun intended," he smirked. "I'm sorry that you can't have Matt. I know how much you like him, so... okay, I'll help you."

Gil fought the urge to grab Al and squeeze him in thanks. Instead, he simply nodded: "Thanks, partner."

He left at eight o'clock. Hands in his jacket pockets, he walked the two miles into town. There he found a bar serving pints of dark beer and sat down. There were several people milling about on Friday night, including a cute busboy and, just his luck, a raving bachelorette party. He singled out the drunkest of the girls, wondering who was most likely to take a strange, scarred-up, red-eyed albino into her bed. He liked his odds with a pretty blonde, but decided against it. He didn't want a blonde tonight; no comparisons to or reminders of the boy he was trying to forget. _Besides_ , _she's not half as good-looking as Matt_. Instead, he chose a tall brunette who—Latino in ethnicity, looking absolutely nothing like Matt—smiled at him. Gil nodded in return, making her giggle, and he ordered another beer.

* * *

Matt was racing upstairs, arms full of freshly-washed laundry, when he tripped on Al's jacket. His breath caught and he fell backwards, crashing into Francis. He grabbed Matt in reflex, but the shock and momentum was too much. He lost his balance and together they crashed down the stairs. Francis cried-out in pain when he hit the floor, squeezing Matt tightly. It took Matt a moment to realize that he was unhurt, still clutching laundry to his chest, and another to notice the blood soaking through Francis' shirt. "GIL!" he screamed, scrambling off of Francis. The Frenchman was gasping through clenched teeth, his eyes screwed shut in pain. Peeling back his shirt, Matt could see that his stitches had been torn out, leaving his shoulder wound gaping open. Matt panicked. There was blood everywhere. He tried to stanch it with a freshly-washed t-shirt, but it was futile. "Al— _somebody help_!"

Al whipped into the entrance hall seconds later, hand on his gun's grip. "What?! What happened?!" Then he saw the situation and cursed: " _Fuck_."

"Call an ambulance!" Matt said. But Al was already grabbing his keys.

"No, they'll take him to the emergency and he'll have to give his real name. He has to go to the doctor that Arthur assigned him, he's sworn to secrecy. C'mon, help me with this," he added, returning with a first-aid kit. "Let's get him into the car. Hey, Francis— can you walk?" The Frenchman groaned when Al lifted him, rather effortlessly.

"Where's Gil?!" Matt demanded, following them out.

"He's— Oh shit!" Al cursed in realization. "He's not here."

" _What_?!"

"He's not here," Al repeated, helping Francis into the backseat of the car. "Matt, you have to come with us to the hospital, I can't leave you here alone. Get in," he ordered. In French, Francis tried to protest: "No! You can't leave the house, Mathieu, it's too dangerous!" but Al ignored him. He closed Matt inside and told him to keep pressure on Francis' wound. "Don't let him pass-out." Then he climbed into the driver's seat and the vehicle rumbled to life. Matt kept his hands pressed to the makeshift bandages from the first-aid kit, soaked with blood. He spoke to Francis in French for the entire duration of the drive, feeling sick with guilt. Al was an exceptionally fast driver, but good. They reached the hospital safely in seven minutes. That's where things got complicated:

"What do you mean the doctor's not in? Call him!" Al snapped.

"We did," said the nurse, growing impatient. "He's not answering his phone, but it doesn't matter. As I've already told you, he"—she pointed to Francis—"can't wait for us to track down the doctor. He needs to go to the ER _right now_. He's already lost too much blood."

She was right. Francis was slumped in a wheelchair, looking faint. His eyes were half-lidded, skin leeched of colour and soaked in cold sweat. His breathing was shallow. " _Mathieu_ ," he wheezed. Matt stood rigidly beside him, covered with blood and clutching Francis' hand.

"Okay," he decided. "Take him to the ER, whatever you have to do. If he needs blood I'll donate mine, we're the same blood-type," he offered as they wheeled Francis off.

The nurse nodded her consent, speaking into a hand-radio. Francis was handed-off to the ER staff, who asked: "Sir, can you hear me? What's your name?"

"Francis— Bonnefoi," he choked-out.

Matt heard Al curse beside him, but he didn't argue. They both knew that Francis needed proper medical care, which he wouldn't get without disclosing his identity. The ER staff needed to know who he was in order to treat him, and his alias didn't extend to faking medical records. That's why Arthur had arranged for him to have a physician sworn to secrecy, to protect his identity. "I'm going to kill that son-of-a-bitch," Al growled, clenching his fists. "What kind of a doctor turns off his phone when he's on-call?!"

Matt didn't care. He just wanted to know that Francis was going to be fine. When a male-nurse approached him, asking if he was willing to donate blood, Matt nodded. "Okay, come with me then. Sir, you'll have to wait here," he said to Al. "Unless you're donating blood, you can't—"

"I'm not letting Mattie go anywhere alone," Al said. His blue-eyed gaze was determined. He had already lost Francis in the ER, he wasn't about to lose the boy who was his main priority. Thinking fast, he said: "My little brother is terrified of needles. If he's going in there, I'm going with him."

The nurse glanced thoughtfully between them, then said: "Alright, fine. Come with me."

He led them into a private room and then left with Matt's Canadian health card, promising a swift return. Al sat down beside Matt, and said: "Are you afraid of needles?"

"Not at all."

"Then fake it."

By the time the nurse returned, Matt was pale-faced and trembling. He took Al's hand, squeezing hard, then winked when the nurse turned his back. Al pretended to sooth him: "It's okay, Mattie. It's just a little prick, just a little blood. Dad needs it." Despite the threatening situation, Matt almost snorted.

The nurse said: "Just to confirm, you _are_ Mathew Bonnefoi, son of Francis Bonnefoi?"

"Yes, I am." Matt tensed, squeezing Al's hand for real.

"Okay, thank-you. I'm going to take a pint of blood now. You're going to feel a bit woozy, but that's normal. Tell me if you start to feel nauseous. It should take approximately ten minutes."

Matt nodded, pretending to feel anxious, as if he had never done this before. Al played his part of big-brother well, talking incessantly to try to distract him, and Matt kept quiet. He started to feel dizzy near the end, and tired. Al wrapped an arm around his shoulders to steady him, which felt good. Al's body was strong: solid and warm. Matt felt safe beside him. "Thank-you," he said afterward, when the nurse handed him a juice-box. He was kept under observation for twenty minutes, wherein the nurse returned to check his vitals several times, claiming that he looked exceptionally pale. Matt attempted a half-hearted laugh: "That's just my natural complexion." Finally, he was released two hours after he had initially been brought in. Al kept his arm securely around Matt, pretending to be proud of his little brother, when in actuality he refused to believe that Matt was okay. "Seriously, Al. I'm fine, just tired."

"You sure? Because if something happens to you tonight, after Francis fell down the stairs (and Gil's gone), then I'll be in serious trouble. I might have to jump off a bridge," he said in jest.

"I'm fine," Matt repeated. He and Al returned to the ER's waiting room for news of Francis. They were told to "have a seat, it might be a while," and offered coffee, which Al accepted. Matt slumped onto a cushioned bench and leaned back, feeling sleepy. Eventually his head flopped onto Al's shoulder, but the American didn't protest. "Thanks, Al. I wouldn't know what to do if you weren't here," he admitted.

"Hey, that's my job," Al replied. Considerately, he lifted his arm and wrapped it around Matt fraternally. "Besides, I kind of like having a brother."

Matt smiled and closed his eyes. "Yeah, me too."

* * *

So, your place or mine?" she asked, biting his earlobe seductively.

Gil threw back a shot of hard-liquor and grinned. "Better idea— you got a car?"

She took him by the hand and pulled him through the back exit into the parking-lot. Absently, he watched her wide hips swing as he followed her out. She was very pretty and exactly Gil's type: someone to fuck. She led him to an old green beater that smelled like stale cigarettes and pulled him into the backseat, wrapping her long legs around his waist, feet encased in four-inch heels. Her smooth, caramel skin was warm and soft, and he ran his hand from her knees to her hips, pushing up her skirt. He leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to her neck, then unbuttoned the front of her shirt. But it was mechanical, fingers working from muscle-memory. His head felt heavy. He felt her hands slip beneath the waist of his jeans into his boxers and he inhaled sharply. Her voice sounded distant: "Hey, are you okay? You're not going to vomit, are you?" Gil shook his head. He leaned down and buried his face in her long, dark-brown hair, breathing in the fragrant, floral scent. Matt's hair always smelled like maple-leaves in fall— _fuck_. To distract himself, he sucked on her neck, biting down. She gasped in surprise and coiled her fingers into his hair as her right hand worked his cock. He felt hot and dizzy, mind and body fighting for dominance. _Don't think about what you're doing_ , _just do it_ , he told himself. He continued to kiss her neck, tasting her sweat as he topically explored her body. Finally she sighed, and said: "Are you going to fuck me, or not?"

Gil lifted his head in surprise. He stared down at her, brown eyes waiting for an answer. "Am I going to—?"

* * *

It was almost half-past two in the morning when Arthur arrived at the hospital. He did not look happy, green eyes glaring like spitfire, clenching a paper coffee-cup. Al hadn't wanted to call him, but knew it was irresponsible not to. He stood as Arthur approached, but he didn't meet the captain's gaze. Quietly, Arthur said: "Alfred, _what the fuck_?"

Matt said: "Captain Kirkland, I'm sorry—"

"Not now, _Mr. Williams_ ," he said, holding up a finger to silence Matt. "I want to hear Alfred's explanation. I want to know why you ignored protocol and brought Mathew to the hospital; why you endangered him, his father, and the success of this entire operation. But first, I want to know where the fuck Gilbert is. Why isn't Matthew at the house with him, or, better yet, why hasn't he joined your little party?" he gestured. "Alfred, explain yourself _now_."

"I'm sorry, Captain." Al kept his eyes downcast in shame. Matt had never seen Al look so meek before, wide shoulders arched in defense, blonde head hung. Arthur's words, his angry tone, seemed to hurt more than anything.

"I trusted you," said Arthur in disbelief. "My superiors wanted someone with more experience, but I said no, Alfred and Gilbert are my best men. I fought for you— and you've disappointed me." Al visibly cringed. "I thought you understood how important this mission was. I thought you were mature enough to handle it, but I was wrong. You revealed their real identities!" Arthur snapped. "The one thing I asked you to protect! You endangered Mathew. He looks like death!" He pointed, indicating Matt's sickly complexion. "Haven't you got anything to say in self-defense?"

Al shook his head. "It happened fast. I made a call. I'm sorry."

"And Gilbert—?"

Matt felt awful about the night's events, especially because it was his fault: _If I hadn't been so fucking clumsy we wouldn't be here_! Anxiously he tied his hoodie's strings into meticulous knots as he waited to be addressed. Arthur had pulled Al away, wanting a private word. They stood beside the vending-machine, close enough to watch Matt, but far enough that he couldn't hear what was being said. If Al's face was any indication, however, it was unpleasant. The American looked like a kicked-dog; the Englishman looked tired. He covered his eyes with his hand, shaking his head. Matt wondered what would happen to he and Francis if the hospital leaked their whereabouts to the press. Most likely they would be relocated, he only hoped that Arthur didn't pull Al and Gil from the case. He honestly didn't know what he would've done if Al hadn't taken charge tonight. _And now he's taking the wrath for it as well_.

"Are you okay?" he asked when Al returned.

Al forced a smile. "I will be. Arthur's gone to talk to the ER staff," he said, nodding. Matt saw the Englishman discretely flash his badge. "Hopefully there won't be any problems."

It was another grueling hour of tense silence before Francis was finally released. "Capitaine," he said, seeing Arthur. He was exhausted and drugged-up; his blue eyes looked feverish, but he poked his finger into Arthur's chest nonetheless. "I want to talk to you about your détectives," he slurred. Fortunately, he passed-out on the short drive back to the house and had to be carried inside.

Matt was insisting that Arthur spend the night, apologizing for the inconvenience, when they heard the back door slam open. It was followed by a growl: " _Fick_!" then Gil stumbled drunkenly into the hall. He froze when he saw Arthur, like prey in the face of a predator. "Captain—"

"Why do you smell like booze and perfume?" said Arthur tersely. His green-eyed gaze was cold, demeaning, yet victimized, as if his best detectives had betrayed him. When Gil failed to answer, the Englishman exhaled deeply. Quietly, he said: "You know, it's too fucking late for this. We'll talk in the morning." And he stomped upstairs.

Momentarily paralyzed, Matt stood stalk-still. Gil's silver-white hair was defying gravity, mussed-up, and there was lipstick smeared on his chin. His clothes were disheveled; he seemed to have misplaced his jacket. But the most telling feature was Gil's wine-red eyes, usually so confident, refusing to look at Matt. And suddenly everything Matt was feeling—shame, worry, guilt—morphed into anger. Like Arthur, he felt betrayed. "I don't even want to know where you were," he said in disgust. "The fact that you were gone when we needed you is bad enough, but that you were out drinking and fucking is worse!" he yelled, shocking both detectives. He felt tears well in his eyes, but choked them back. "You should've been here! You promised to protect us! If it wasn't for Al—"

"Mattie, calm down. You're still weak." Al reached for him, but Matt retreated.

"Non!" he snapped, voice breaking. He felt lightheaded, overwhelmed by fatigue and emotion that he couldn't suppress. "I trusted you!" he spat at Gil. "You made me a promise, does that mean nothing to you?!"

* * *

MATTIE!" Al yelled, lunging forward. He caught Matt as the boy's legs collapsed and he fainted. "Shit!"

Gil flinched. Matt's words stung. His pale, limp body hanging in Al's arms felt like a punch to his stomach. It flipped and Gil tasted bile, which he swallowed. When Al said that he was taking Matt to bed, he just nodded. Then he sat down on the bottom step and clutched his temples, holding his head. He wished that he could take back his stupid decision to get drunk and fuck a total stranger; he wished that he could un-see that terrible look of betrayal on Matt's face. " _You made me a promise_ , _does that mean nothing to you_?!" he had yelled, looking heartbroken.

Gil shook his head. In the empty room, he confessed: "No, Mattie. It means everything to me."


	6. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **FIVE**

As your captain, I'm obliged to ask: How's your head, Gilbert? As a casual acquaintance, however, I feel no shame whatsoever in saying: You deserve it, you drunk Jerry git." Arthur poured himself a cuppa tea and then, feeling generous, poured one for Gil as well. "I know you don't drink coffee," he said, setting the teacup down in front of him on the table. A minute passed before he continued: "Al told me where you went last night and why. I hope you understand what you've done and... what you can't do," he implied, glancing toward the stairs. "I understand why you felt compelled to go, but that doesn't make it okay. You deliberately left your post while on-duty during a top-secret mission in order to get completely pissed."

Gil toyed with his teacup. He sighed. "You have a real talent for making someone who feels bad even worse, did you know that, Captain?"

"Good. I would hate to think my efforts are being wasted."

A minute later Al joined them and Arthur's relaxed posture tensed. Formally, he said: "I've decided, against my better judgement, not to report last night's events. I'm going to give you both a second chance, mostly because I don't want to have to relocate the Bonnefois, but also because I know you're _not_ going to fuck it up twice— right?"

"Yes, sir."—"Yes, Captain," said Al and Gil in union.

Arthur stood. Al said: "I'll walk you out, Captain."

"You can do me one better, Jones. You can drive me to the fucking bus station."

"I'll drive you home if you want, it's only two hours," Al offered. "I'll be back by lunchtime."

Gil wondered if Al had gone too far with his seemingly innocent offer. Arthur's critical forest-green eyes slid over the American, studying him for an ulterior motive—a joke, perhaps—but Al only shrugged. "Yes, alright," he said. "That's preferable to sitting on a bus for two-hundred kilometers. But on one condition," he raised a finger pointedly. "I get control of the radio. I'm not listening to your Southern drawl for two hours."

"Awe, Captain," Al pouted. "And here I thought you loved _ma Southern drawl_ ," he emphasized.

Al laughed in jest, but Gil saw Arthur blush as they walked out.

Then Matt walked in, looking sleepy and bedraggled. He wasn't expecting to see Gil so early; his violet eyes widened in evidence. An awkward silence stretched between them as Gil struggled for an opening line. _Come on_ , _Beilschmidt. You're acting like a coward_ , _just say words— any fucking words_! When he did speak, his voice sounded loud in the quiet kitchen: "How're you feeling, Mattie?"

"I should be asking you that," Matt said, avoiding him.

"Ja, I'm alright—"

"I said I _should_ ask, but I didn't." Tersely he collected a bowl and poured cereal into it, then added milk and sugar. He kept his head bowed, habitually hiding his face behind his curls, but Gil could see the tension in his posture. He made it halfway back to the refrigerator before his conscience caught up to him, and he said: "I'm sorry, that was rude. I didn't mean it, I really do hope you're not feeling sick. There are tablets in the cupboard if you need them."

 _No_ , _not physically sick_ , Gil thought, feeling tender toward Matt. _You just can't stay angry_ , _can you Mattie_? _Even though I fucked-up the whole operation_. He hadn't lied about leaving the house, but he had done the next-worst thing in not telling them he was going. _If I had been here Al wouldn't have taken Matt to the hospital with him_ ; _Matt wouldn't have revealed his identity_ ; _and he and I wouldn't be—_ He paused. _If I had been here alone with Matt_ , _feeling like I do what would have happened_? _What would I have tried to do_? _Maybe I just dodged a bullet_ , he realized, untrusting his own intentions. _But I still disappointed him and lost his trust_. And that was what hurt the most. "Mattie, I'm really sorry about last night—"

"It's fine," he said, closing the refrigerator harder than necessary. "I'm sorry too. I was upset and lightheaded and worried about Papa, I shouldn't have yelled like that. I'm kind of embarrassed about how I reacted and I'd rather just forget about it, okay?" That said, he placed the cereal bowl on a tray with a cup of hot coffee and started to leave.

"You're not eating breakfast here?" Gil asked, hating how sad he sounded.

"It's for Papa, not me," he indicated the trey, "I'm not hungry." Then he left.

* * *

 **THREE DAYS LATER**

I got a call from Captain Kirkland today," said Ludwig. From the refrigerator he pulled two beers and offered one to Gil. He twisted the cap off the other and drank deeply before saying: "He wants me to increase surveillance at the house since the incident at the hospital, just to be safe. He's really not happy with you. It'll be a long time before you outlive this particular hiccup, Gil."

"Ja, I know." Gil sighed and folded his arms over the tabletop, moping. It was the only place available. Ludwig and Kiku had commandeered nearly every surface of the kitchen for surveillance equipment, cases of breaching tools, and several boxes of high-calibre firearms. _Oh_ , _sure. But all I get is a handgun_ ( _a rifle_ , _two knives_ , _a tazsr_ , _pepper-spray_ , _and a set of handcuffs_ )— _child's play compared to what they've got in here_! Arthur had given the team permission to defend the Bonnefois with force if necessary, which— _not going to lie_ —excited Gil. He and his brother both shared a deep, not entirely unclouded love of new toys, particularly those that were lethal. Every so often their precinct was chosen to test new weapons for developmental research and then it might as well be Christmas for the Beilschmidt boys.

"It's not like you to mess-up on a case, Gil. You've done long stakeouts before, you've even gone undercover," Ludwig reminded him. "You're quirky, ja, but you've never skipped-out on your duties before. That's why Kirkland recommended you in the first place— _you_. Alfred is here because he's your partner and you work well together, but you're the most senior officer on this case. You acted like a new recruit the other night. Or worse, a dummkopf teenager. Why on earth would you jeopardize your career like that?"

In self-defense, Gil attacked: "Why are you fucking Feliciano?" He fingered a flip-knife on the table, refusing to let his regret show. He didn't want his brother to know the truth, which was embarrassing (Al and Arthur knowing was bad enough). He didn't want to see Ludwig's disappointment or pity. The instant the words left his lips, however, he wished that he hadn't spoken them. Ludwig paled. His ice-blue eyes looked sheepish, fearful of Gil's opinion. Nervously, he switched to German in case Kiku was nearby:

"You, uh... know about that?" he asked coyly.

"Ja. I saw you together," Gil admitted, as least judgmental as possible.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Nein, I don't think so. Just me."

Ludwig seemed to take some comfort in that fact. He sighed. "I'm not... I mean, we're not together like that," he said defensively, blushing. His pale skin looked sunburnt. "I just... he's not so bad, you know? I suppose I like kissing him..." Despite the potential danger (Feliciano was a high-schooler; Ludwig was a twenty-four-year-old law-enforcement officer), it was cute from Gil's third-party perspective, watching his little brother get flustered over an innocent crush, especially since the object of his affection—jaunty little Feliciano—was so completely unlike the hard-working, stern-faced German. _I guess it's true that opposites attract_. _Mattie and I are opposites_ , he thought hopelessly. Ludwig finished his beer in one greedy gulp. "You won't tell anyone, will you Gil?"

"Nein, little bruder. I won't tell. But do me a favour: the next time he cooks for you bring me the leftovers," he said in apology, sorry he had (maliciously) mentioned it.

On his way back across the road Gil ran into Antonio. He had met the friendly Spaniard days before, when he had banged on the frat-house door to complain about the noise on Francis' behalf. Antonio had been apologetic then, shouting over-the-shoulder for the boys to settle down and be quiet, disturbing a competitive beer-pong tournament. Gil recognized Lovino amongst the crowd, anxiously eyeing the door. He had seen the Italian sneaking back-and-forth several times, using the garden as a discrete shortcut. His telling expression—suspicious, on-edge—had suggested that he was doing something he wasn't supposed to and was afraid of getting caught by his family. But Gil had never been a snitch (professional obligation aside) and pretended not to notice how the tension in Antonio's posture relaxed when he had seen Gil, not unlike now:

"Gilbert!" Antonio called. Eagerly he jogged over. "I'm glad I ran into you. I have a _really_ huge favour to ask," he said, clapping his hands together in a begging notion. He smiled hopefully, eyes sparkling like emeralds. "I want to take Lovino to the drive-in," he admitted, "but I can't let his family know. Technically-speaking, I'm not supposed to be dating my students... At best I could lose my position as an RA and tutor; at worst they'll expel me. Feliciano said that he would come with us to make it seem less like a date, but... as much as I adore Feliciano I was kind of hoping your brother would join us... you know, to distract Feliciano? I would ask him myself. In fact, I was just on my way over, but... I've never really talked to him and, frankly, he's a little intimidating. I was hoping that maybe _you_ would ask him for me?" He pursed his lips, big emerald-green eyes beseeching.

Gil cocked his head. "You want me to ask-out Ludwig and Feliciano for you?" he asked skeptically, though he was intrigued. The Vargas brothers didn't initially strike Gil as being fraternally close, but if Antonio's implications were true the boys must've been allies in secret-keeping (since Feliciano knew about Antonio, and Lovino knew about Ludwig). _Ludwig won't like this_ , _he'll fight it_ , Gil knew. _But if he does go he might have fun. He would have Feliciano all alone in a dark_ , _parked car for the better part of two hours_. _If I had the opportunity to be with Mattie like that_ , _I wouldn't waste it—_

As if on-cue, Antonio said: "You and Matt are welcome to come too if you want, if Ludwig feels awkward in a car full of strangers. That way we could take two cars instead of one—?" He let the suggestion linger.

Gil fought the urge to say: Ja! in excitement. He wanted to accept the invitation, but he felt conflicted. _Even if it wasn't irresponsible of me_ , _there's no way Matt would want to go with me after what happened_. _Besides_ , _I shouldn't be encouraging him to break Kirkland's rules. Then again—_ would _it be breaking the rules_? Matt wasn't supposed to leave the safe-house because it was dangerous for him to be seen in public, but if Antonio's idea of a date was going to the drive-in then they wouldn't be in public. They wouldn't leave the safety of the car and Gil would be there to guard him the whole time. If anything, he and Matt would be in closer proximity than they were at the safe-house because Matt would be sitting right beside him. It wasn't the most professional thing to do, but Gil wanted desperately to earn back Matt's trust. The violet-eyed boy's look of betrayal haunted him, making him feel guilty, a feeling that he loathed beyond all others. _Matt's been bored for days_ , _wandering around the house like a ghost. I bet he'd love a night out with people his own age. It's not like Lovino and Feliciano don't already know he lives here_. _They think he's my boyfriend._ The thought alone made Gil's stomach flutter. _And if the Vargas brothers want to keep the outing a secret anyway_ _then they're not going to tell anyone about it._ _There's no danger in it_ , he convinced himself. If anything, he would be taking Matt out for the sake of his mental health, saving him from the restlessness of cabin-fever. Somehow, within the space of a few seconds, Gil had gone from thinking: _absolutely not_! to: _how could I deny Matt the opportunity to go out_? _This is a great idea_! _Assuming he agrees to come with me_.

Thanking Antonio for the invitation, he promised the eager Spaniard that he would talk to Ludwig and Matt and let him know before the afternoon's end.

* * *

The drive-in?" said Matt. His tone was skeptical, but his cheeks flushed. Nervously he shifted, habitually pulling at his long hoodie-sleeves. "I don't know, the last time I left the house was such a disaster—"

"That's because you went to the hospital, a very high-profile place. Francis was injured and you got sick from blood-loss, of course it was awful. Nobody likes the hospital. That's why I think the drive-in could be fun. C'mon, Mattie. Tell me you don't want to leave this house—?"

Matt paused, considering it. He wanted to go, Gil could see it, if only to escape the safe-house and Francis' paranoia for a few sweet hours. "I'll be with you the whole time?" he asked, glancing up timidly.

"And Ludwig and Feliciano," Gil added. He didn't want Matt to feel awkward about being alone with Gil, not now that he knew what kind of unsavoury shenanigans the German was capable of. He wanted the chance to make a better impression on Matt, feeling ashamed of his previous behaviour (which was something of a new revelation). He wanted the chance to prove to Matt that he was a good detective and a decent human-being worthy of Matt's affection. _Please accept my peace-offering_ , _Matt_ , he thought, holding his breath. He could see the boy's resolve weakening, he just needed a little push."I won't leave your side, I promise, and Ludwig is the best fighter on the force. You'll be safe with us," he said, goading Matt into accepting. "And Al and Kiku will be here with Francis. It'll only be for a few hours, not nearly as long as the last time you left. C'mon, Mattie," Gil risked a smile, "you want to go, don't you?"

Finally, Matt smiled shyly: "Yes, I do. Okay."

* * *

They left at half-past eight o'clock, just after sunset. Ludwig drove. Matt sat in the backseat of the car beside Gil, listening to Feliciano chatter happily about how nice it was to make new friends. He seemed unperturbed to be in a car full of near-strangers. Lovino and Antonio were taking the Spaniard's car and planned to meet them at the drive-in. Absently Matt wondered if the Vargas brothers had had as difficult a time convincing their parents to let them out as he had. Despite their ages—seventeen and eighteen—their parents were over-protective (Grandpa Roma, however, had winked and wished them well). Matt could relate, having had to coax Francis into grudging agreement. He had not been happy about letting Matt outside, insisting that it was an unnecessary risk. And, to Matt's surprise, Al agreed with him. Gil had guessed at Al's reaction, calling him stubborn, but Matt hadn't really believed it until Al's handsome face had gone stony, and he said: "No. I think it's a bad idea. It's not safe."

"Being cooped-up for weeks isn't safe," Gil countered, playing Matt's liberator. "He'll be with us, surrounded by people all night. Ludwig and I will both be there, in close proximity, inside a locked car. He'll be fine."

They argued as if Matt wasn't present, speaking about him in third-person. Matt wanted to intervene, but he didn't want to sound too eager, afraid that doubling-up on Al might force the American into a defensive corner. He also didn't want to worry Francis by sounding too desperate, so he feigned nonchalance as he waited for Al's answer. Secretly, Matt suspected that Al didn't want to disappoint the captain again by disobeying orders.

"But it's _not_ disobeying orders! We're not ignoring protocol. C'mon, Al," Gil sighed, "I got Ludwig to agree to it, I didn't think I'd have to convince you too."

Finally, after extensive debate, Gil had promised to have Matt home by midnight and paraded him outside. It was the first time in three days that Matt had tasted fresh air and he savoured it. It was a perfect autumn night, fresh and cloudless. A deliciously cool breeze whispered over the treetops, gently tousling Matt's curls and kissing his skin. He lifted his face to the sky and inhaled. It wasn't until he heard Gil chuckling that he opened his eyes, looking at him.

"You look like an inmate on afternoon bail," he noted.

Matt smiled. "I kind of feel like it. I guess I'm just grateful, thanks for this Gil."

They met Antonio and Lovino at the drive-in, whose car was parked about fifteen-feet away, pretending that the distance had something to do with visual obstruction, and kindly everyone else pretended to believe them. As the film began, Matt found himself sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Gil, both of them leaning toward the middle of the backseat to see the screen. It was barely ten-minutes later, however, when Ludwig offered to trade places with them because Feliciano was anxious about the film's content (hyped: the season's scariest thriller), and wanted to put as much distance between himself and the screen as possible. So Matt climbed into the passenger's seat, parrying Gil's teasing: "You're not afraid of ghosts, Mattie? It's alright if you are. It's my job to protect you, remember?"

Matt grinned, and said sarcastically: "I'm in witness protection because a mentally-insane Russian wants to kidnap me. No, ghosts don't scare me. That cloying tone of yours does though," he added. It felt good to jest with Gil again, like friends. The German pouted in feigned-hurt, then shrugged and leaned back.

It wasn't a terrible film, but Matt found it unfortunately predictable. His mind strayed to other things while watching it, and, without warning, so did his gaze. In his peripheral vision he could see Gil, equally bored. It was true that he disliked films; he was restless. _He's only here because everyone else wanted to come_ , _me included_ , Matt knew. _He's actually a really selfless person_. He didn't realize that he was smiling until Gil suddenly glanced at him, smiling in confusion (likely, he thought Matt was poking fun at the film). But Matt broke eye-contact almost immediately and plastered his eyes to the screen, feeling embarrassed. He didn't want to think so fondly of the German, especially since the incident three nights ago, but Matt wasn't the type of person who held a grudge. Gil had apologized and Matt had accepted. Nothing detrimental had happened, after all. Besides, if Gil had of been home then Matt wouldn't have been able to accompany Al and Francis to the hospital and he wouldn't have been able to donate blood to help his father. He would've been stuck at the safe-house worrying, annoying Gil. In retrospect, the way it happened was probably for the best. Matt only wished that he hadn't witnessed Gil stumble in later, drunk and bleary-eyed.

For three days he had been unable to rid himself of that image and the saucy implications that his overactive imagination associated with it. He had pretended to be fine, having forgiven Gil while secretly feeling uneasy. That night he had been angry at Gil for abandoning he and Francis, but wrongly so. Since then he had had too much time to reflect on his reaction and, unable to let it go, he had grudgingly accepted that he was jealous. Not of Gil's sexual conquest, but that he had so casually left and chosen a complete stranger to spend the night with instead. _He told me that we couldn't be friends because of the job_ , _so he chose to find someone unattached_. _I understand why he did it_ , _but I miss talking to him. I'm jealous that someone else was the recipient of Gil's jokes and flattery_ , _given his full attention._ It was stupid. He had only known Gil for a short time, he shouldn't have felt so attached. He knew it, of course, but knowing didn't change how he felt. It was simply the truth: _Even if we can't be friends_ , _I don't want him to forget about me_. _I certainly won't ever forget about him._

It was a long film. At the two-hour point Feliciano whined about needing a snack, an excuse to escape the mounting tension of the climax. He dragged Ludwig out with him, promising to return shortly.

"Ja, they're not coming back," Gil guessed. He pushed the driver's seat back and kicked his legs up over the dashboard, stretching out. The car's interior suddenly felt much smaller, not only because of Gil's lazy posture. Matt felt a jolt of nerves, sitting alone in the dark with Gil. He wanted to seem cool and self-confident, but he worried about saying the wrong thing if conversation arose. As steely as Gil's resolve was not to be friends, Matt hoped that he would change his mind. He wanted to impress the cocky German, but didn't know how. He tried to think of something clever to say regarding the film, but his brain choked. In the end it was Gil who spoke first:

"You know, I honestly didn't expect you to come out tonight. I thought the other night might've scared you."

"No," Matt said. His voice sounded quiet beneath the movie's soundtrack. "I was worried, but not scared. I was worried about you too," he added after a pause. "I called-out for you first, you know, when Papa collapsed. When Al told me you weren't in the house I kind of panicked. I wondered where you had gone."

Gil faced Matt. His wine-red eyes looked soft. Without breaking eye-contact, he dialed-down the radio. "I'm sorry, Matt. I shouldn't have gone, I know, but I really didn't think anyone would notice."

 _Not notice_? _You're the life of that house_! Matt thought (which was truly incredible, given that the other two residents were Francis and Al). Instead, he said: "Well I noticed. Al was really great at the hospital, but—" _He's not the one I wanted beside me_ , _comforting me._ Al was strong and well-trained, but, despite his deceptively-calm demeanour, his face was too readable. Matt had seen worry and fear in Al's face and it had unnerved him, especially after Arthur's arrival. Gil's presence, however, was always solid and reassuring. There was something in his self-assuredness that naturally lent comfort. He was so adept at playing big-brother, so calm and ever-protective. He always knew exactly what the situation called for: a soothing word or a joke. There was something innately knightly about him. He didn't seem to be afraid of anything, which is what drew Matt to him. It was why Matt felt so comfortable sleeping beside him. Gil made Matt feel safe.

"I didn't do it," Gil said suddenly. As if he was confessing to a priest, he said: "I didn't fuck that girl. I wanted to... I think. But I didn't. She was pretty put-out about it," he attempted a grin.

Matt only stared, trying to understand: "Why not?"

Gil shook his head, shrugging. "I don't know. I was pretty pissed, but... that's not why. I think I felt guilty for leaving you."

"Oh." Matt couldn't quell the joy he suddenly felt, knowing that Gil hadn't forgotten him; that he had walked away from casual sex because of him. _Well_ , _because of his obligations to me— close enough_! Feeling giddy, he couldn't help the smile that curled his lips. Quickly he covered his mouth, but too late. He had started laughing.

Gil looked confused (and a little embarrassed). "What's so funny? It's true! I mean, it's not like I couldn't have fucked her. It's not like I couldn't get it up or anything!" he misunderstood Matt's amusement. "It's not like I'm impotent or anything! I just felt bad!" His panicked tone only made Matt laugh harder. He was red-faced and teary-eyed by the time Gil joined him, grinning and poking at Matt. "Stop laughing, schatz! You're hurting my feelings, making me self-conscious!" he pouted.

"I'm sorry— sorry!" Matt squealed when Gil mussed his curls in retaliation. His sides hurt, but it was worth it: the tension between them was gone. Catching his breath, Matt looked at Gil and asked: "What does _schatz_ mean?" Gil's smile faltered somewhat in surprise. "You called me schatz."

"Oh— did I? Weird." Gil evaded the question. Instead, he said: "Do you mind if I roll down the windows? They're all steamed-up because of your laughing, but that's not what people will assume happened in here." Matt waved, unconcerned. The night's cool breeze felt good against his heated skin. They sat comfortably together for a while, which was pleasant until Gil said: "Fick, I hope Ludwig gets back soon. I've really got to take a piss."

"So go then," Matt shrugged. "I'll be alright."

"Nein. I'm not shirking-off twice in one week—"

"Gil, just go ahead. I'll be fine for the six minutes it'll take you to walk to the washroom and back," Matt said, slightly condescending. "And if you pass the concession-stand bring back treats. I like chocolate," he smiled benignly.

Gil hesitated, then reluctantly agreed. "Ja, fine. Don't leave the car," he ordered, pointing as he slipped out. Matt crossed his heart, miming a promise. "I'll be right back." And he hurried off.

Matt sat back, lazily eyeing the screen. It was pitch-black outside except for the screen's glow, but he wasn't afraid. His unsteady heartbeat had nothing to do with fear—right? He shifted slightly, glancing out the open window, then berated himself for doing so. Gil had already seemed to be gone for a long time, but, looking at the glowing clock, less than a minute had expired. Matt flinched when the backdoor opened. Ludwig and Feliciano had returned. "Oh, it's just you," he exhaled, feeling foolish.

Ludwig nodded in apology. "Where's Gilbert?"

"Washroom," Matt answered, turning back toward the screen. He listened absently as Feliciano chattered to himself in Italian, bundled protectively into Ludwig's big jacket. In the rear-view mirror Matt saw him take advantage of proximity and snuggle up to Ludwig, who blushed. It reminded Matt: "Ludwig, what does _schatz_ mean?"

"Schatz?" he blinked. Inadvertently he looked down at Feliciano and blushed deeper. He cleared his throat, and said: "It's a term of endearment implying that the recipient is someone precious, a treasure. Why?"

"Oh, no reason. I just heard it in the film," Matt lied, smiling to himself.

* * *

"C'mon, dude! Did you fall in or something?!" Gil groaned impatiently. The little bricked washroom was small and unexpectedly crowded, people milling about outside and lined-up within. The women's washroom line-up was even longer. _Fuck it_ , he thought, _I'll just piss outside_. Breaking the law against public urination seemed like a small price to pay if he could hurry along. Besides, nobody knew that he was a police detective sworn to uphold the law. If anything he would get a warning and a lecture about public sanitation. _I'll risk it_ , he decided, leaving the washroom. He found a quiet spot around the back, decently covered, and sighed in relief.

Gil was heading back to the car when he passed the concession-stand, but decided to forego Matt's desire for chocolate. He had already been gone for too long and couldn't kick the nagging feeling that something was wrong. It was most likely nothing, but he knew that it wouldn't stop until he saw that Matt was safe. So he walked faster.

* * *

The film's climax was loud and gory, but Matt heard a distinct shout outside of the screen. It was in Italian. He looked outside and saw, to his shock and horror, several people bullying Antonio and Lovino. They were young, just rowdy teenagers looking for easy prey, and they were obviously intoxicated. Matt poked his head out the window, listening to the exchange: The teenagers had been looking for trouble and found Antonio's car with the windows steamed-up, so they had banged on the glass, but had been surprised to find two boys inside. That's where the real abuse had started, poking fun at the—rather sensitive, and secretive—couple. Lovino's temper had gotten the better of him and he had left the car in offense, and protectively Antonio had followed. But they were outnumbered three-to-one and whatever Lovino was snarling in self-defense had angered the teens. It started to get physical.

"Ludwig!" Feliciano worried.

Feeling obliged to settle the dispute, he stepped out of the car. "Matt, roll up the windows and lock the doors. I'll be right back," he ordered. "Feliciano, you—"

But Feliciano was already outside, hurrying to his brother's aid. Matt could hear his panicked voice, trying to quell the tension: "Hey, there's no need to fight. Let's just be friends, okay?!"

Ludwig swore and chased after him, throwing an uncertain over-the-shoulder glance back. Matt obeyed and rolled up the windows, muffling the sound. But with the radio turned off he could still make out shouts of outrage. He sat in the passenger's seat, fingertips pressed to the glass as he watched the scene from fifteen-feet away, feeling guilty that he wasn't out there too, defending the people who had invited him along. Ludwig was adept at settling disputes, especially when those involved were drunk. He used his size and deep voice to intimidate. Feliciano stood behind him, using Ludwig like a shield as the German calmed the situation. It looked like he might succeed without having to use force, until someone threw a fist at Lovino. "Shit," Matt cursed, watching a brawl break-out. "I should do something, but what?" _Call the police_? he thought sarcastically. _I feel useless sitting here_. _Where's Gil_? he wondered, surveying the dark lot. Gil might've bragged that Ludwig was the best fighter on the force, but there was definitely something fierce about Gil—not only his appearance—that suggested he had won more fights than not.

Then the driver's door opened. _But I locked it_ , Matt thought absently. It must've been Gil returning. Only he and Ludwig had keys. "Gil, you've got to help—"

But it wasn't Gil. It was a hooded stranger in a half-mask.

Matt's blood went instantly cold. Fear gripped him and he started to scream, but the stranger grabbed him and pressed a forceful, gloved hand to his mouth. "Nn—!" Matt struggled, trying to call-out, but a second stranger appeared and together they dragged him, kicking and thrashing, from the car. The first one held Matt tight against his chest while the second restrained his fervent protests as they dragged him toward a nearby vehicle. It had been sitting there all night. Matt had assumed it was full of drive-in patrons, not kidnappers. _No— no_ , _no_ , _no_! he panicked as fear overwhelmed him. He couldn't think. His brain was frenzied, terrified of that daunting vehicle, knowing that if he got into it he would never get out. Instinctively he bit down hard on the stranger's hand, tasting oiled-leather, provoking a grunt. Just briefly it was enough. Matt pulled his head back and screamed:

"HELP!"

* * *

Matt's scream hit Gil like a bullet. A cold, sick feeling stabbed him and he ran as fast as he could. He wasn't far from the parked cars. He heard the commotion under the film's loud din. He saw the brawl; he saw Ludwig whip around in shock and draw his handgun. Gil did the same. Racing forward, he shouted: "NYPD— _freeze_!"

The brawl stopped instantly. The teenagers—hearing police voices—scattered, leaving Antonio, Lovino, and Feliciano staring in surprise (in reflex, Antonio grabbed the Italian boys and pulled them back to safety).

The strangers, however, moved faster in panic. One of them took something from his sleeve and pressed it over Matt's nose and mouth: a drug-soaked cloth. Matt was screaming: "GIL!" but almost instantly his violet eyes dulled and the hand he had been reaching out fell weakly. Horror-struck, Gil watched as Matt's body went limp and he collapsed in the stranger's arms. "Nein!" _Goddamned_ , _fucking—_ "NEIN!" Gil yelled as Matt was lifted into the waiting vehicle, the engine running. The driver shifted into gear and gravel crunched as the tires spun in retreat, heading for the road. Recklessly Gil chased them on foot, racing as fast as his legs would carry him (he was the fastest runner on the force, after all). Desperately he reached the vehicle, grabbing for the bumper as it sped away. He hit the back-end, but it was useless. "STOPP!" he yelled angrily. He aimed his gun at the vehicle's tires and fired, but missed. The bullet hit the metal and bounced off. Then the vehicle turned onto the road and Gil heard the engine groan as it picked-up speed. "FICK!" Gil kicked the dirt, wanting to hit something. But there was no time for that—

"Get in!" Ludwig yelled, pulling up beside him.

Gil dove into the car before it stopped. "That way!" he pointed. Ludwig drove fast in pursuit. Gil grabbed the police radio from the glove-box and reported the kidnapping to the local authorities. His brain worked fast as he described the vehicle and the direction it was headed in, growling in impatience. Then he called Al: "Al! I lost him! I'm so ficking stupid, I— I lost him! Matt's gone! Help me!"

It all happened so quickly. Gil felt like it was happening to someone else: a high-speed car chase in pursuit of criminals. He and Ludwig searched for the kidnapper's vehicle for over an hour, trying to find the trail before it went completely cold. They had followed it into the downtown core, then lost it on the back-roads. Gil's heart was pounding hard as he frantically searched the streets for a clue, listening to the police radio. The area had been well-covered by the local police, but Gil kept insisting that the search wasn't over. "Let's look again, maybe we missed something! Can we call-in a helicopter?!" Finally, after hours of searching, the local authorities had found the vehicle abandoned in a ditch, it had been set on fire. With no further leads they had deemed it pointless to continue searching. Gil cursed when he saw the wreck and snapped at the officer who said: "Whoever took that boy knew what he was doing, there's no evidence. They've gone without a trace. Sorry." But Gil refused to believe it, so Ludwig and Al humoured him for several more hours, driving mile-after-mile in the dying hope of finding Matt.

At five-thirty in the morning they were forced to return to the safe-house, empty-handed.

They were met by a raging Frenchman who screamed and beat on them with his good arm, red-faced, and crying desperate, heartbroken tears. Gil just stood there, his fists clenched as Francis spit scathing accusations at him, the operation, and police officers in general; yelling about how corrupt the entire institution was. He attacked them all, even quiet Kiku, who had tried to calm him down, but he focused most of his energy on Gil. In exhaustion, on the verge of collapse, Francis finally broke-down, and said: "This is all _your_ fault. Mathieu is gone because of _you_."

 _I know._ Gil hated himself. _I know it's my fault. I was supposed to protect him_ _but I didn't_. _And now he's gone._ _Matt's gone_. His stomach ached; he fought the urge to vomit. He clenched his jaw and stood rigidly like a statue, feeling numb in grief. He couldn't hear anything except for Matt's final shout: _GIL_! playing over and over in his mind. He couldn't see anything except for the pure terror on Matt's face, going soft when he passed-out.

"I'll call Captain Kirkland," said Al quietly, bravely.

Ludwig nodded solemnly. "I'll talk to Antonio and the Vargas family to make sure they're okay. They need to be told what's happened and what to do now that they're involved. Kiku, come with me."

"Hai," Kiku obeyed, following Ludwig out.

Gil and Francis just stood there, alone together, facing but not seeing each other. It was dead-silent.

They stayed like that for a long time.


	7. Chapter Six

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **SIX**

 **NEW YORK CITY**

I trusted you!" Francis yelled. He was pale-faced and feverish—his left arm was in a sling, lacking strength—but he was making a scene that the police captain's office walls couldn't contain. "It's your fault! I didn't want any of this, I hate this goddamned city! I wanted to take mon Mathieu overseas to hide-out, but you told me that he was safer here. You fooled me into believing that you could better protect him! You promised that he would be safe with _them_!" he spat, stabbing a finger at the four-person team without taking his eyes off of Arthur. "Capitaine, mon son has been kidnapped by a lunatic because of _you people_!"

To his credit, Arthur held Francis' gaze without flinching. He stood rigidly and remained silent as the Frenchman insulted him in front of his juniors. "Mr. Bonnefoi, I'm really, truly sorry," he said in reply. The words were respectful, but there was a shred of unease in his tone, even fear. He was a young police captain, after all, and his team had failed to protect an innocent boy from a _very_ dangerous man. Gil could see the guilt in Arthur's forest-green eyes and knew that he blamed himself and his own poor decisions. It was a small gesture, but his apology to Francis was undoubtedly genuine. Francis, however, disagreed. He left shortly after, shaking his head in disgust. Gil saw unshed tears in the Frenchman's eyes as he passed, escorted out.

A long, tense moment expired before Arthur sighed, lips pursed. He crossed his arms and approached the waiting team, lined-up like soldiers. He was smaller than all of them except Kiku, but his presence was unmistakable. "I gave you a second chance," he said soberly. "I trusted you to protect Mathew Bonnefoi and you failed. Not because you were overwhelmed or compromised, but because you were reckless. You ignored common-sense and deliberately placed Mathew in danger, playing the arrogant heroes," he spat unkindly. Beside Gil, Al flinched. Arthur eyed them all in disbelief. "Do you have any idea what you've done— to me, to yourselves, to that poor boy?" He shook his head. "Of course, I'm not blameless either. I chose each of you for this mission, foolishly believing you could handle it. Well," he stepped back, "I was wrong. I should've chosen more seasoned officers. Not young, dumb kids."

"Captain, can I speak?" said Gil, breaking the silence. He couldn't just stand there and let Arthur criticize everyone for something he had orchestrated. Ludwig and Kiku didn't deserve it, they had only been following Gil's lead as the most senior officer on the case. And Al looked positively heartbroken, big blue eyes plastered to the floor; no doubt, he thought he had singlehandedly let Arthur and Matt down. "It's my fault," Gil admitted. Everyone turned to look at him. "I'm responsible for the mission's failure. I was reckless and I let my personal feelings effect my judgement. Al tried to stop me. He knew it was a bad idea, but I didn't listen. And Ludwig was just following my lead as the senior officer. I thought that Matt would be safe with us, but... you're right, Captain. I was wrong. Please don't punish everyone else for my stupidity." He bowed his head in surrender, prepared to beg if need be.

"You're taking full responsibility?" Arthur asked, somewhat skeptically, yet hopeful.

"Ja, sir."

"Fine." He sighed. "Honda, you're dismissed. Return to the command-centre and start going through the surveillance footage you've collected. With luck you might find something useful." Kiku bowed politely and left without a word. "Ludwig Beilschmidt, you'll be written-up for poor conduct and for getting involved with an underage teenager while on a case. It'll go on your record," said Arthur sternly, unable to hide his disappointment. "I want you to assist Kiku as the junior officer," he demoted him. "You're dismissed. Jones—" Arthur paused. Slowly Al lifted his blue eyes. "I'm putting you in charge of finding Braginsky, find him and we find Mathew. It's already been twenty-four hours, but if there's a chance we can track him down I know you'll do it."

Al gaped. He and Gil both stared in shock. Both had been expecting to be berated, or at least lectured by the captain. Instead, Arthur was placing his trust in Al. The American's cheeks heated in disbelief. "I— yes, of course. Thank-you, Captain," he stuttered. "I won't let you down. I'll find the bastard, I promise."

"See that you do, Detective Jones. You're dismissed," he said, less harshly.

He waited until the door had closed before he said: "Detective Beilschmidt, you accept full responsibility for the failure of this mission?"

Gil swallowed, prepared for his punishment. "Ja, sir."

"Then I hereby suspend you from your duties as a police detective until further notice."

Gil balked, wide-eyed. " _What_?!" He had been expecting punishment, not banishment. "Captain, nein! I can't be taken completely off the case, not now! I thought you would demote me and let me work under Al, not—" He shook his head in panic, in disbelief. "Arthur, you can't suspend me! I swore to protect that boy, he needs me! Mattie—"

"Is no longer any of your concern," said Arthur sternly. "There'll be an inquiry (I don't know when), and your case performance will be judged by the Internal Affairs Bureau to determine the situation. I trust you understand the seriousness of your position, Gilbert."

"I'm being investigated?" he guessed, red-faced in anger. He couldn't believe it.

Solemnly, Arthur nodded. "They'll assume that your integrity was compromised and accuse you of handing Mathew over to those kidnappers—"

" _Bullshit_!" Gil yelled in outrage. "Captain, you can't seriously believe that I would ever do that—"

"I don't," he promised, "but your conduct suggests otherwise. I mean, you placed Matthew in deliberate danger for fuck's sake! What sort of bodyguard does that unless he's been paid-off?!"

Gil bristled. He clutched fistfuls of his hair and pulled, growling in self-loathing: "AH! _Why_?!" he cursed. _I'm such a goddamned idiot_! _Why did I do that_?! In anger, he kicked the wall.

Arthur let him rage for a minute, then said: "I'm sorry, Gilbert. Really I am. You're a good detective and I don't want to lose you from the force, but the Commissioner's Office has taken over the case. My hands are tied. There is absolutely _nothing_ I can do except advise you to go home and stay out of trouble until the charges against you have been dropped, as I'm sure they will be. There's no evidence to support them." He looked sympathetic. After a moment, he added: "It's because you've taken full responsibility that the others won't face the same inquiry. Thank-you," he said sincerely. "I would hate to lose all of my best officers because of an unfortunate situation. If all goes well then Alfred will continue to investigate under the Commissioner's authority and we'll find Braginsky soon. Until then"—he stood up taller, becoming formal—"please turn in your gun and your badge, Detective Beilschmidt.

"You're dismissed until further notice."

* * *

 **AMERICA—?**

 **AN UNKNOWN LOCATION**

Matt felt like he was floating. Nothing was tangible. He could hear sounds, incomprehensible voices, but distantly, as if they were speaking from inside a dream. His thoughts were foggy. He could imagine shapes, but he couldn't see anything. He didn't know how long it had been until the dull, numb throb in his brain stopped and he was submerged in warmth. His lips parted and he tasted the air, which was heavy and moist. He felt someone's fingers massaging his curls, easing his headache, and he relaxed. His eyelids fluttered, slowly regaining consciousness.

Someone said: "He's coming out of it. Give him another dose, he shouldn't be awake yet."

Matt opened his eyes when someone lifted his head and saw two strangers staring down at him. One of them pressed a cloth mask to his face and he breathed in a sickly-sweet scent that made him feel dizzy, then numb. His eyes drifted closed and, later, he couldn't remember what either person had looked like.

* * *

Matt dreamt that he was in bed at the safe-house, snuggled close to Gil. He felt relaxed. Nothing could hurt him as long as Gil was protecting him; sitting beside him; gently petting his curls. Slowly the fog in Matt's brain lifted and he came back to consciousness, sighing softly as he woke. The bed was freshly laundered and soft, warmed by body-heat. _Mine or someone else's_? He was lying on his back, supported by pillows; the sheets felt smooth against his skin. Cautiously he opened his eyes, but the room was dim. A big, unfamiliar shape was leaning over him, finger-combing his damp curls. At first Matt's sleep-heavy mind thought that he was looking into a mirror—the man had a pale, unblemished complexion and violet eyes—but it was wrong. He looked older and more defined than Matt; not at all unattractive. His lips were curved into a gentle smile, head cocked, silver-blonde hair messily framing his face, and his violet eyes looked tender. A big, strong hand cupped Matt's cheek, and he said:

"Matvey." His voice was low, like deep-water. It pulled Matt back to reality. He gasped. "Nyet," said Ivan, rubbing his thumb against Matt's cheek. It was the touch of someone wanting to be gentle, but who didn't realize his own strength. "Don't be afraid, Matvey. I won't let anything hurt you, not now that we're finally together."

"Non," said Matt weakly, leaning back into the pillows to escape Ivan's touch. Tears welled in his eyes.

"Oh— you're afraid of _me_? Nyet, lubov moya." He leaned down and kissed Matt's forehead. Matt turned his face away; a tear slipped down his cheek. Ivan stared down at him in disbelief. He looked pained. "What must they have told you about me to scare you so badly? Those people who don't want us to be together, they've confused you, frightened you. Have they threatened you?" he asked loudly in anger. But he caught himself quickly when Matt flinched. "Nyet, lubov moya." His tone was soothing, as if coaxing a wild animal. "You're safe with me, da? I won't let anything hurt you. Ya tebya lyublyu— I love you, Matvey," he repeated in English. "I won't let anyone take you away from me. You're mine, I won't lose you again."

A soft knock sounded at the door, revealing a tall brunette with a kind face. He kept his eyes downcast like a respectful servant. He was holding a garment: a long t-shirt, which he handed to Ivan before starting to leave. It was then that Matt realized two things: a) that he was stark-naked beneath the bed-sheets, and b) that he recognized the brunette. "I know you, you're that nurse from the hospital!" he said weakly.

The brunette paused, looking uncertainly to Ivan. Ivan smiled, and said: "This is Toris, Matvey. He's the one who found you and brought you to me, he and my other comrades. They've been invaluable to me. They would never betray me, would you?" he asked, eyeing Toris in threat. In reply, Toris bowed his head:

"Ne, sir, never," he said, and quickly left.

Matt hugged the bed-sheets to his body. His skin was flushed pink and his curls were damp, freshly bathed. "Where are my clothes?" he asked, avoiding eye-contact with Ivan.

"I burned them," he smiled brightly.

"You _burned them_?!"

"Da. You don't need any ugly reminders of that place you left."

"You mean _my home_?" Matt emphasized, forgetting himself. Ivan's friendliness lent him the courage to lash-out, slapping at the Russian's reaching hand in anger. It was the wrong thing to do.

" _This_ is your home now! You belong with _me_!" he shouted, seizing Matt's biceps and shaking him. "Don't you understand that, Matvey?! You're mine and nobody else's! You're mine," he repeated more softly. Then he took Matt into his big, strong arms and hugged him. Matt froze, barely breathing. His heartbeat drummed madly against Ivan's chest, bed-sheets pooled at his waist. The Russian pushed his face into Matt's curls, breathing in deeply. It felt like a long time before he released the boy. "You'll understand it soon, Matvey," he said, smiling hopefully. In appeasement he placed the t-shirt on Matt's lap. Then kissed his cheek and left.

Matt clutched the big, starched t-shirt in his fists and tried not to shake.

* * *

 **NEW YORK CITY**

 **TWO DAYS LATER**

Gil was going squirrely, pacing his small, one-bedroom apartment like a caged wildcat. He kicked empty take-away containers out of the way, clutching a beer's bottle-neck in his hand. Every few seconds he glanced at the whiteboard standing up in front of the television, covered in erasable black marker, which was presently clenched between his teeth in thought. His notes were a mess, incomprehensible to everyone except him (because he hadn't slept in close to forty-eight hours, sustaining himself on cheap take-away, beer, and caffeinated energy drinks). He stared wide-eyed at the whiteboard and assorted newspaper clippings scattered on the coffee-table. He hadn't showered or brushed his teeth for two days, too focused on solving the case. Of course, he wasn't _supposed_ to be working, which is why he had no resources and no authority to make calls. It's why he had to shove everything into the couch cushions when Ludwig had stopped by to check on him, worried about his brother.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. "Gil? Hey, open the door!" Al called now.

"Fick!" Gil cursed under his breath, collecting loose pages. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. "Al? Just a minute—"

"No! You have to let me in _right now_!" Al demanded in excitement. "I've got a lead!"

Gil dropped the pages (and beer) and sprinted to the door, throwing it open. Al plowed past him into the apartment, grinning from ear-to-ear. When he saw the state of Gil's apartment and Gil himself, he paused. "Dude, what happened to you? You're not supposed to be working," he added, eyeing the whiteboard warily.

"Forget it, what'd you find?!" Gil said frantically.

Al drew a file-folder from his satchel and handed it to Gil. Inside was a picture of an attractive Lithuanian:

Toris Laurinaitis. Gil shrugged, glancing helplessly at Al.

Al stabbed a finger into the file. "This is the guy who took Matt's blood at the hospital, posing as staff. I was sitting in the office trying to puzzle-out how Braginsky's boys knew where to find Matt, and I thought: The only people Matt interacted with for, like, a month were the neighbours and the hospital staff. Well, Ludwig had already done a background check on all the neighbours (and Antonio had already been taken in for questioning and cleared), and so I did a little investigating at the hospital. I learned that this guy," he poked the picture of Toris, "had just recently been transferred into the hospital a few weeks before and hadn't reported in to work since last Thursday. I asked if I could see his records, which, unfortunately checked out, then I asked to see his locker. That's where I found his hospital ID card, which I scanned for fingerprints, and— voilà! He had been working in the ER under an alias to cover his many indiscretions. A little more digging and I found out that the Laurinaitis family has been connected to the Braginsky family for three generations. Am I a kickass detective, or what?!" he grinned.

Gil managed a half-smile, his mind was racing. "That's great, Al. The next thing to do is track down—"

"Way ahead of you, bro. I've got the guy's last listed residence and the name of a Polish deli owned by his former roommate. I'm headed there right now to investigate."

Gil grabbed for his jacket. "Great," he started, but Al placed a hand on his chest.

"You can't come, Gil. You're suspended," he said, smile fading. "In truth, I'm not even supposed to be telling you details of the case, I could get into serious shit, but I know how worried you are." He waved, indicating the mess of Gil's apartment. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm handling it."

"Oh, c'mon Al. Nobody will know if I tag along—"

"No," said Al forcefully. "You're in enough trouble. Take a shower and get some sleep. I'll keep you posted on anything I find, okay?"

Gil sighed in defeat, shoulders slumped. He let Al go. Only then did he realize that Al had left the file-folder in Gil's possession. And he smiled.

* * *

 **AMERICA—?**

 **AN UNKNOWN LOCATION**

That night, Matt was caught trying to escape. Ivan was not happy.

Having grown brazen in the face of his captors' kindness, he foolishly thought that escape would be simple once he crossed beyond the bedroom. He had made it halfway down a dark, windowless corridor—a half-finished basement—when he ran headlong into a tall, bespectacled man, whom he punched in the face in panic. Blood on fire, Matt ran for the stairs leading up, but it was futile. At the top he reached a re-enforced metal door and, though he tugged with all of his strength, it was locked. The abused Estonian just stood there, rubbing his cheek as he watched Matt beat his fists angrily on the door, bruising them. It was then that a nervous, young Latvian threw open the door from the opposite side, returning from an errand, and accidentally knocked Matt backwards. He tumbled down the stairs and landed in a heap on the hard, concrete floor. "Shit— Raivis!" accused the Estonian, rushing forward in aid.

"Sorry, Eduard. I didn't know anyone was there!" the Latvian squeaked in apology.

Matt denied Eduard's assistance, swatting at him. "Don't touch me!" he snapped through clenched teeth. He was sore, but otherwise unhurt. _Twice in two weeks. If I ever get out of here I'm never taking the stairs again_. Then he saw the door that, in surprise, Raivis had left open. Knocking the Latvian aside, he raced back up, ignoring the shouts of alarm from both foreigners. He didn't know what he would do when he reached the landing: find an exit and then run, he supposed. _I'll run until I collapse if I have to_! But he didn't make it that far.

Ivan caught him around the waist, one-armed, and pulled him back. On the main-floor, Matt briefly saw the moonlight before Ivan took him back downstairs into the dimness. He had spent forty-eight hours trying to coax Matt into compliance, but he was an impatient man. A dark, threatening aura seemed to encircle him now. His amicable attitude was gone, replaced with something more sinister that demanded obedience. He clenched the boy tightly as he dragged him back to the small bedroom serving as a cell. Matt struggled, his heels sliding on the concrete as he fought against Ivan's pull. Ivan threw him roughly inside, then closed the door without a word. Matt tried the doorknob, but it was locked now. He blamed himself for his foolishness, charging like a kamikaze toward disaster instead of taking advantage of the unlocked door and lax security. _I should've gained his trust_ , he thought, too late. Ivan seemed eager to please Matt. _I should've faked it_ , _pretending to accept my fate. He might've trusted me then_. But he had wasted his chance, wanting desperately to be free. Ivan's icy expression had betrayed his displeasure, showing a hardness that Matt hadn't seen in him before. It made Matt feel cold.

Resigned, he paced the small bedroom. The concrete floor was cold on his bare feet so he kept to the circular area-rug, which lent some degree of comfort. It was a near-empty room, housing a double-bed, a chest of blankets, and a wooden chair. Like the rest of the basement, it was unfinished. The overhead light-bulb hung naked from the ceiling, and two fat metal pipes were secured to the stud-wall. There was no window. Matt didn't even know how far underground he was, though it couldn't have been far. The staircase was not so long as to indicate a deep descent.

 _If I was in the city_ , _wouldn't I hear the noise_? he wondered, sitting on the bed's edge. The t-shirt he wore lifted to his thighs and he shivered. _I wouldn't have been able to see the moonlight_ , _I would've seen streetlights instead_. _I must be somewhere rural. It's so quiet here_ , _as if the world is holding its breath._

Dejectedly he laid down, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to go home to Canada, where he belonged. He wanted his house, his bedroom. He wanted his father. Fleetingly he thought of what it would be like to have Al and Gil visit him there, maybe stay. He knew it was unlikely, a daydream. _But what else have I got to do_? he thought. In the quiet, near-empty room where nobody could see him, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander to Gil. He pictured the German's face, grinning impishly, those wine-red eyes winking in mischief; he saw Gil's lips form the letters of Matt's name and heard his raspy voice; he imagined the German's touch, which sent an excited shiver over Matt's skin. In the dark he let himself believe that Gil was beside him, holding him, not tenderly as a friend or bodyguard, but intentionally as a lover. Momentarily Matt forgot where he was and he inhaled, clutching a pillow tight. He missed Gil the most. _I wonder if I'll see him ever again._

 _I wonder if I'll see anyone besides Ivan ever again_.

* * *

 **NEW YORK CITY**

You're sure it's the same family name? You've spelled it right?" Gil said into his cell-phone. "Okay, great. Danke!" He hung up, grabbed his jacket, a flip-knife, and Toris' file, and left the apartment. As he descended the stairwell, he dialed Al's cell-phone number, listening to the tones. "C'mon, pick up— pick up, pick up!" The call went to voicemail and Gil cursed: "Fick! Al, I have a major lead. I found a property upstate owned by the Laurinaitis family, but according to the township's archives it hasn't been used as an official residence for twenty years. If Braginsky hasn't left the state yet, that's where he'll be. I'm sure of it." He meant to give more information, but he dared not do so over an unsecure line. Instead, he said: "Call me as soon as you can!" and hung up. In the underground parking, he found his motorcycle exactly where he had left it a month ago. He threw his satchel over his shoulder and climbed on. He kicked-up the stand and started the engine; it purred to life, greeting him.

Since Al's visit, Gil had spent every minute studying the Lithuanian's file and everyone potentially connected to him or the Braginsky family. He had stayed up all night doing research and making dead-end phone calls that annoyed everyone involved. Finally, he had found a link in the city's archives. So tired, he had almost misunderstood the connection. If Al hadn't left Toris' file with him he wouldn't have looked twice at it, nor thought to search the archives at all. It was a stroke of luck, which Gil pounced on ravenously. He had thought about calling Arthur, but knew he wasn't supposed to be working the case. If the Commissioner's Office realized what Gil was doing they would likely arrest him and hold him under suspicion for collaboration.

If he wanted to go after Braginsky, he would have to do it as a private citizen.

 _This is probably really stupid_ , he acknowledged. The motorcycle growled lowly as Gil eased it out into the sunlight. _But I've got to find Matt before Braginsky moves on_.Now that Matt was most likely in Ivan's possession there was nothing to stop the Russian from running. The obvious next-step would be to flee the country, taking Matt with him. _I can't let that happen_! Gil thought, urging the motorcycle onto the street. The tires hugged the pavement and it sped off, accelerating fast. He clenched the handlebars tightly in determination.

 _I'll find Matt and bring him home_ , _I promise._

 _I just hope I'm not too late._

* * *

 **UPSTATE NEW YORK**

 **AN UNKNOWN LOCATION**

Ivan returned smelling strongly like vodka. Matt's heart pounded as he scrambled up, pressing his back defensively against the wall. He was careful to keep the bed between them as he frantically scanned the bedroom for a serviceable weapon, but found none. He held his breath as Ivan drew nearer, stalking him like a predator.

"I've been patient," Ivan growled lowly. His violet eyes glared at Matt in threat, harbouring a clouded intent. He looked almost melancholic, yet determined. "I haven't hurt you. I've been good to you, haven't I Matvey?" Matt stayed silent; Ivan wanted to talk, not listen. Slowly he walked around the foot of the bed, letting Matt climb onto it in futile escape. He was toying with the boy, encouraging him to try to fight. Absently, Ivan clenched his powerful fists. "I've been blunt. I've told you how much I love you, how desperately I want you, but you don't believe me, do you? I'm just a villain in your eyes, someone to fear," he spat. Matt swallowed.

"Please," he said meekly, inoffensively, "this isn't right, just let me go home—"

" _This is your home_!" Ivan roared. "You belong here with _me_! Why don't you understand that?!"

In an instant he grabbed Matt's ankle and pulled him down onto his back. Matt kicked-out, trying to escape, but Ivan climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. He held Matt's arms flat against the mattress, leaning down, and said: "Are you afraid of me, Matvey? Do I haunt your nightmares, do you see my face when you close your eyes?" The thought seemed to arouse Ivan. Roughly he jolted Matt, grinding himself against the boy's waist. Matt struggled but it only egged-on the Russian. He turned his face sideways as Ivan's lips touched his cheek and the heady scent of vodka harassed his nose. "Do you know how long I've waited to fuck you?" Ivan whispered. He chuckled at Matt's wide-eyed reaction. His body froze, afraid of contact with Ivan's. He shoved his shoulders back into the mattress, trying to put as much distance between he and the Russian as possible. It irked Ivan, who released Matt's left arm and slid his hand up the length of Matt's thigh, shoving the lightweight t-shirt to his waist. Matt shivered, flushing in embarrassment. He wanted to yell and fight Ivan's touch, but he couldn't. He felt instantly weak when Ivan grasped his cock. "Don't be afraid of me," he said huskily, working Matt's cock in his hand. Matt gasped and bit his lip to keep from crying-out. "You want me too, don't you? Tell me." Ivan whispered. There was something primordial in his chilling gaze. It scared Matt. Instead of speaking he mustered his courage and struck Ivan hard across the face.

Ivan's head whipped sideways on impact. He stopped.

Matt said: "S-stop, p-please stop—"

But the playfulness had gone from Ivan's face. He was livid. "I've been good to you," he said, drawing himself up. "I've been fucking gentle, but you want me to be the villain. You want me to hurt you—? _Fine_."

Ivan pushed Matt onto his stomach, forcing his cheek against a pillow, muffling his frantic gasp. Matt's heart was beating so fast he was afraid it would burst. Cold sweat beaded his skin and he clawed uselessly at the bed-sheets. His heart skipped in dread as he heard the click of Ivan's belt-buckle being undone, then cringed when he felt the Russian's hard cock, slick against his naked skin. "P-please s-stop, I'm s-sorry!" Matt begged, sucking back sobs. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm s-sorry, I—"

Ivan clenched a fistful of Matt's curls, pushing his head down as he lifted the boy's waist in preparation. "This could've been gentler. It could've been something good for both of us," he growled, positioning himself. Matt's whole body trembled violently. He writhed beneath Ivan's weight. "Now it'll only be good for me. One way or another, Matvey, you'll learn." Without warning, he pushed his cock forcefully inside Matt.

Matt screamed.

* * *

Gil left his motorcycle in a thicket beyond the Laurinaitis' property, walking it for the last kilometer to quell the noise. If there was anyone home he didn't want to alert them to his presence. The success of his mission relied on stealth and speed. He ducked into the back-garden, dodging a floodlight. It was a big, sprawling property, once a farmhouse; now a dilapidated building in need of attention. But the tire tracks leading to an out-building were fresh and a light glowed softly from inside. Security was lax, just a few guards. He recognized the Lithuanian, Toris, talking to a slight-figured blonde. The blonde— _I know him_ , _he's the old roommate_ : _Feliks Lukasiewicz_ —cocked his hip in disapproval, and said:

"There was a cop asking questions about you, Tori. It totally freaked me out. I thought you'd want to know. I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I am, really," said Toris. He sounded distressed, tired. "But you shouldn't have come here, Feliks. What if you had been followed?!"

Feliks rolled his eyes. "I wasn't. Jeeze, Tori, you need to chill-out broski."

Gil took advantage of the distraction and snuck into the mud-room while Toris scolded Feliks. There he began his search, resisting the urge to celebrate: _I was right about this place_! _I'm such an awesome detective_!

It was a big house, but Gil moved like a ghost throughout it: silent and unseen. He avoided the ugly, yellow kitchen, where a bespectacled man was reheating a meal in the toaster-oven, then followed him to a heavy re-enforced metal door. _Brand new vaulted door in the middle of a crumbling house_? _That's their hideout_ , _that's where they're keeping Matt_! He waited until the door had been closed, then fished two lock-picks from his satchel and set to work. It took longer than he thought it would. Gil was usually a good lock-pick, and he began to fear the complexity of the mechanism, but finally it clicked in release. He replaced his lock-picks with his knife, prepared for a fight if need be. He would've preferred a more subtle entrance, but he didn't know what was on the other side of the door. _If they have firearms at the ready_ , _I'm dead._ He took a breath and opened the door.

It was a half-walled staircase that led into the corridor of an unfinished basement. It looked surprisingly mundane as he skulked in the shadows, keeping close to the wall. He heard static voices coming from a television in an adjacent room, so he avoided it, favouring the opposite direction. There were only a few closed-in rooms, most of which were unlocked and empty. When he came across the only locked door, Gil knew he had reached his goal. But as he picked the lock—knife clenched between his teeth—he kept looking over his shoulder, afraid of being spotted. _This doesn't feel right. It's way too easy_ , _too amateur_ , he thought, feeling increasingly unsettled. _There's a few guards but no real security._ Either Ivan was seriously underfunded, or he wasn't worried about being found out.

CLICK. The lock released and Gil turned the doorknob.

It was dark inside. The overhead light-bulb shone weakly, reflecting off big metal pipes. It looked empty.

Then Gil saw the figure lying in a mess on the bed, unmoving. "Matt!" he gasped. He rushed to the bedside in horror. For one heart-stopping moment he thought that Matt was dead. His pallor looked ill, his battered body was limp, and his skin was bruised; the bed-sheets were bloody. Then Gil saw the same blood on Matt's thighs and he inhaled sharply in understanding. Blinding rage momentarily consumed him as he pieced together the evidence; his lip twitched and he swallowed. "Mattie," he said quietly, afraid to touch the boy lest he find him dead-cold. But Matt was breathing. Gil could see his shoulders rising and falling weakly as he took in shallow breaths, face buried in a pillow. He flinched in reflex when Gil touched him, turning him over. His pale cheeks were tear-stained. He looked hollow and exhausted. Gil lifted the boy into a half-sitting position, braced against his arm. Matt's head flopped back, revealing teeth marks and other signs of abuse. Louder, Gil repeated: "Mattie."

Matt's eyelids squeezed fretfully before opening. It took him a long time to regain consciousness and longer to recognize Gil's face. When he did, his violet eyes grew wide. His voice was choked in disbelief: " _Gil_ —?"

"Ja, I'm here— like a knight-in-shining-armour," he said, trying to smile. He swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat. It hurt to see Matt like this: beaten and raped.

Overwhelmed, Matt cried. He clutched Gil close, hugging him for comfort, as if afraid that Gil would vanish like a dream. Gil held him, rubbing his back. But he was anxious. "Matt, let's go. Can you stand?" He helped Matt to his feet, but the boy immediately collapsed, clenching his teeth in pain. Shame-faced, he apologized. "It's alright, I've got you schatz. Hold on." Gil lifted Matt into his arms like a newlywed bride, clutching his thighs. He could feel blood-mixed-semen on his fingers and fought the urge to shiver in revulsion. It was still wet. Matt buried his face against Gil's shoulder to silence his sobs, but his whole body was trembling. "It's alright, schatz," Gil repeated as he stood, taking Matt's weight. "I'll protect you. I'll get you out of here. I won't—"

A big, threatening shadow filled the doorframe. Gil's blood went icy. Ivan Braginsky looked even bigger than his photograph suggested, twice the size of Gil. Slowly he stepped into the room, glaring in cold fury. And he said:

"Let go of my Matvey— _now_."


	8. Chapter Seven

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **SEVEN**

Matt's head snapped up when he heard Ivan's deep voice. It chilled him. In a flash Gil dropped Matt's legs and, keeping a supportive arm around his waist, brandished a short flip-knife in Ivan's direction. He shielded Matt with his body, like a guard dog; Matt clutched his long sleeve, paralyzed. His mind wheeled, thinking of Gil's wiry strength pitted against Ivan's bulk in a fight and fear stabbed at him. Gil's wine-red eyes met Ivan's icy violet ones and a tense, competitive silence passed between them. Then suddenly it erupted:

Ivan leapt at Gil; Gil shoved Matt back. Matt crashed into the bed frame and collapsed. He tried to stand but his legs buckled, feeling like jelly. Pain shot through his body. He was dizzy and fought the urge to vomit; his stomach roiled. He swallowed bile and clutched the bed-sheets, white-knuckled, as he helplessly watched the two-man brawl in front of him. _What do I do_?!Ivan fought the knife from Gil's grasp, knocking it away. His big, steely fist connected with Gil's cheek, forcing the German down. He hit the floor and rolled sideways, dodging the next attack. Gil was _very_ fast. He ducked beneath Ivan's powerful swings and thrust his elbow forcefully into the Russian's stomach. Ivan coughed, momentarily winded, then kneed Gil in the jaw. Blood exploded, freckling both combatants. They fought fiercely, yelling and throwing their weight around to try and knock the other off balance. Gil's style was more schooled but Ivan's was more physically powerful. He slammed Gil into the stud-wall and punched him repeatedly. Matt found his voice and shouted: "Stop! Ivan, please stop!" He crawled to his feet and grabbed Ivan's arm, but Ivan didn't slow. He shoved Matt back as if he weighed nothing and kept hammering Gil. Gil struggled, biting at Ivan. He sunk his teeth into the Russian's forearm, drawing blood.

Ivan swore loudly in Russian. He was wild-eyed and fuming, not unlike a bear protecting its cubs. He snaked a hand around Gil's throat and lifted him off his feet, slamming him back into the wall. The crunch made Matt flinch. Ivan snarled: "I won't let you take him from me, _understand_?! He's mine! Matvey is— _oof_!"

Gil kicked Ivan, freeing himself. He coughed and gasped, scrambling to his feet. "Matt!" he waved for him, gesturing toward the door.

Matt started toward him, but stopped when Gil howled in pain. Ivan had retrieved the flip-knife and stabbed it into Gil's side. Gil's strength buckled and he fell to the concrete floor. Matt screamed. He tried to pry Ivan off of Gil, yelling: "Please don't kill him! Ivan! Please don't! I'll do anything you want, I swear! Just don't kill him!"

Ivan looked from Matt's fearful, beseeching face to Gil, who was clutching his side, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut in pain. A moment of conflict ghosted over his face: he wanted to kill Gil, but even after raping him he didn't want Matt to hate him. So instead he grabbed the handcuffs from Gil's satchel and dragged the half-conscious German to the wall. He fasted Gil's wrists, threaded behind a big pipe. Then, tugging at the restraint, he stepped back, satisfied that Gil couldn't escape. He eyed Matt, crouching on the floor. "This is for you, Matvey, lubov moya," he said kneeling to Matt's level. Indelicately he fisted the front of the boy's t-shirt and lifted him, forcing a sloppy, breathless kiss (Gil growled in displeasure). "If I don't kill the German then you will love me, right? You'll be my _anything_ , da?" In a deep, husky voice that scared Matt, he said: "I won't kill him. If he dies it won't be my fault, you can't blame me. It'll be your fault, Matvey. He came here because of _you_." He patted Matt's head in a tender, yet threatening way, and then stood. Collecting Gil's satchel he left, closing the door behind him. He didn't bother locking it. Matt wasn't going anywhere without Gil and both of them knew it.

Matt hurried to Gil's side, unable to stop the tears that flooded his eyes. He inhaled, trying to maintain control, but he gasped when he saw the blood pouring from Gil's side. He knew that it would be worse if, and when, he pulled the knife out. He was scared. He didn't know what to do. He took Gil's face in his hands and lifted the German's drooping head. His voice shook: "Gil—? Gil, please look at me."

Gil's eyelids were heavy but he looked at Matt. And he smiled. "Hallo, schatz."

Matt swallowed. "Gil, you're—"

"Just a flesh-wound, I can feel it," he said dismissively. "Just got to— _ah_! stop the bleeding."

Resourcefully Matt tore the sheets from the bed. He followed Gil's instructions and, grasping the knife's hilt, pulled it clean from the German's flesh. Both of them flinched. Then Matt cut the sheets into long strips of linen and wrapped them tightly around Gil's middle, tying it. It took several before the bleeding was messily staunched.

In relief, Matt said: "You're so stupid, Gil! So reckless! Why did you do that? Why did you come here alone?" He clutched Gil's shoulders and kissed his forehead, then his cheeks. Then impulsively he kissed Gil's bloodied lips. It tasted like salt and metal. Crying angry tears, he said: "You were unarmed, with no backup, no plan— _why_ Gil?! You're so fucking _stupid_!"

The second time Matt kissed Gil, the German anticipated it and eagerly responded. He leaned forward when Matt pulled quickly back, following him. Desperately, somewhat clumsily, he sucked the boy's soft, harassed lips. Matt dug his fingers into Gil's shoulders, but didn't protest when Gil licked the cut on his swollen bottom lip (Ivan had bit him earlier). He parted his lips, tasting the German's hot tongue: tangy blood on dry lips. And he moaned softly. Then he broke contact, gasping. He stared from Gil's lips to his wine-red eyes in disbelief, absently wiping a string of saliva from his chin. He swallowed, and repeated: "Why Gil?"

"I couldn't let him take you away," Gil said, staring unabashedly at Matt. Despite the situation, Matt blushed. Gil's face was so honest. "I was scared of losing you. I thought that I could get in and find you before he noticed, but it was stupid. I know that now," he admitted, grinning ruefully. "I'm such a shitty detective when you're involved, Matt. I make bad decisions. I act on impulse and don't think. I'm sorry, schatz."

Matt just shook his head and hugged Gil, careful of his injury. "Dummkopf," he whispered.

He felt Gil press his cheek against his pale-blonde head; his skin was cool. "Ja," he agreed, kissing Matt. "I'm so sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. Mattie—

"Ich liebe dich."

* * *

Gil was dozing, cheek resting atop Matt's silky head. The boy was curled-up beside him. After trying and failing to pull the handcuffs free, Gil had told Matt to go to sleep in the bed (it was late), but Matt refused. Instead he stayed on the cold, concrete floor, lending comfort to Gil's painful position. His shoulders and back ached like a soldier's in strain; he was exhausted. Matt was shivering. "Mattie," Gil tried again, "get into the bed," but again Matt ignored him. He tugged the comforter off of the bed and wrapped them both into a puffy, white cocoon. Gil sighed in defeat. He closed his eyes and tried to think about Matt rather than the pain—the feel and taste of the kiss(es) they had shared—but it backfired. He couldn't stop seeing Matt's maltreated body lying helplessly on the bed, ready and waiting to be abused by Ivan. _I was too late_ , he thought regretfully, _too late to save him. And now I can't_. He opened his eyes and pulled on the handcuffs with all of his strength, but they didn't budge. He didn't expect them to. "Fick!" he cursed loathsomely. _This is my fault_ , _all my fucking fault_!

Feeling weak and lightheaded, Gil blinked. His vision was spotted. He had lost a lot of blood; the flesh-wound was deeper than he had originally thought. He could feel blood soaking through the bed-sheets holding the flaps of his mutilated skin together. _Another scar_ , he thought absently. He tried to focus on Matt's breathing to keep himself awake. In truth, he was afraid to fall asleep lest he didn't wake up. _And then what_? _Mattie will be left alone with that psychopath_ , _and I'll be_ — dead. He felt like vomiting but didn't have the energy. He leaned into Matt, lacking the strength to stay upright (Matt made a small, gentle sound. It was cute). Then the whole bedroom tilted and began to spin in dizzying circles. It got dark.

Then nothing.

* * *

Matt awoke to a gentle poke. He was so tired, his whole body ached painfully. He felt filthy and spent. He just wanted to go home—and take Gil with him. Hugging the German close, he wished that the intruder would just leave them alone. Slowly he turned his head and looked up, staring into a pair of pretty green eyes. It took him a minute to place them. Then, rudely, he said: "Oh, it's you." He pushed himself onto his knees, staring eye-to-eye with the Lithuanian, who was kneeling. Protectively Matt positioned himself in front of Gil, ready to fight if need be. "What do you want?" he asked, harbouring more willpower than strength. His body trembled, threatening collapse.

Shyly, Toris looked down. "I'm sorry, Mathew. I'm sorry this happened to you... and him. I'm sorry for... well, everything," he said repentantly.

"That's why you're here," said Matt skeptically, "to apologize?"

"Ne. I'm here because..." He hugged a box to his chest, emblazed with a red cross. "I really do have medical training and I want to help you, well... him." He indicated Gil, who was unconscious. He looked sick. When met with cold, antagonistic silence, Toris continued: "He'll die if he stays here like that." Helpfully he reached for Gil, but Matt slapped his hand away ("don't touch him!"). Toris sighed. "He'll bleed-out if the wound isn't stitched. It'll get infected and fester and poison him if it isn't properly cleaned and bound. I know you don't want that to happen, Mathew. You don't want him to suffer. So please let me help him."

Matt felt angry and defensive, but helpless as well. He didn't want to accept the Lithuanian's aid, but knew his diagnosis was accurate. Gil would die if left unattended. "Fine," he relented. Then added: "What can I do to help?"

Together they removed the comforter and untied the bed-sheets. Matt was shocked to find them completely soaked in blood. It was hard to tell by Gil's complexion—already so pale, nearly translucent—but his skin was sallow and blue-veined and looked drained. Gently, Matt cradled Gil's head on his shoulder, holding him while Toris poked at the wound, inspecting it. Matt looked elsewhere, feeling guilty. _This is all my fault_. When Toris asked how long Gil had been unconscious, Matt replied: "I don't know." His response worried Toris, who worked faster. His hands moved deftly, making fast work of the exposed wound. He was silent, dutiful. Matt watched closely as he stitched the flaps of skin back together, distrusting the Lithuanian would-be physician for signs of malicious intent, but found none. Toris was a considerate person. Despite his blood-ties to a syndicate of known criminals, he seemed to genuinely care about Gil's well-being. By the time Gil's wound was cleaned, disinfected, and stitched (the German whined painfully in his sleep), Matt could only utter a well-deserved, yet begrudging: "Merci."

Toris seemed unbothered by Matt's discourteous tone ( _he's probably used to much worse_ ). In fact, he smiled in reply. "I'm happy to help. After all, it's kind of, err... my fault that you're here. I'm sorry," he repeated, bowing his head. His long, nut-brown hair hid his face, flushed in shame.

It was enough to make Matt regret his rude, ungrateful tone. Haltingly, he said: "It's Toris, right? If you feel so badly about everything Ivan's doing then why are you helping him? I mean, who are you to him anyway? A servant? Why criminalize yourself for him?"

Toris returned his tools to the first-aid box and snapped it closed. He looked deflated; a little malnourished. "I'm not a bad person, really," he said. It was a self-serving comment, more of a reassurance than a fact. "I've never wanted to hurt anyone. I've always tried to make-up for the bad things I've done, but..." He shook his head sadly. "It's never enough. It'll never be enough. My family has served the Braginsky family for a long time, several generations. I guess I feel a degree of loyalty to Mr. Braginsky. I've known him since I was a child; I've loved him like a big-brother. But Ivan is very sick. He doesn't understand that what he's doing is wrong, he only knows that he loves you, Mathew. Your father is a politician, a public profession. Ivan thinks that you're in danger with him. He just wants to keep you safe, Mathew. He would do anything to protect you."

"Yes, I know," said Matt bitterly. But it wasn't Toris' fault and, in truth, Matt pitied the anxious man. He saw sadness in the Lithuanian's green eyes and knew that there was somewhere else he would rather be, but loyalty shackled him. Less harshly, Matt said: "My being here won't cure Ivan, you know. It'll only feed his obsession."

"I know," Toris admitted. "But I don't know what to do anymore. I've tried to stop him, but he's so stubborn.

"The first time that Ivan ever saw you, Mathew, Francis was on the news. It was some function—a fundraiser, maybe?—and you were with him in attendance. That was almost two years ago." ( _I was only sixteen_?! Matt thought in discomfort) "Ivan insisted that he knew you," said Toris, "and, even though I knew he was wrong, I didn't correct him. In retrospect, I should have, though I don't know what difference it would've made. Once he decides to do something there's little anyone can do to stop him. By the time he saw you again he had already developed an alternative reality in his mind, in which you and he were lovers. He started following Francis' career almost fanatically. He wanted to know absolutely everything about you and your family, your home, and your life in general. He really did become like a stalker. Eventually he grew to hate Francis and his politics and insisted that you were unsafe with him, that you and he belonged together and it was your father—the government, even—keeping the two of you apart. Again, we tried to explain the truth to him, but we were met with hostility. It was too late. He was obsessed and wouldn't listen to logic. By then I knew that his mind was sick. He started hurting himself, feeling guilty. He wouldn't believe that you weren't in danger. It scared us. Ivan had always been a private person, but he became self-destructive. No matter the threat, he promised to _rescue_ you," Toris said, emphasizing the word in Ivan's defense. "He really, honestly believes that he loves you, Mathew. And that you love him."

"Well he's wrong," said Matt, holding Gil. "I know you know it, Toris. If you really are a good person—and I believe you are—then please help us. All of us." His voice broke, begging now: "Please, Toris, just let us go."

Toris hung his head. He crushed the first-aid box to his chest and stood, fingers shaking. "I'm afraid it's not that simple. I wish it was," he said in retreat. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

Gil awoke, startled by a low, angry grumbling. It took a minute for Matt to sooth him. The German was hot, feverish and disoriented. "It's alright, I'm here," Matt said, holding him. The feel of Matt's body beside him relaxed Gil slightly. It was ironic, and a little degrading, that their roles had so suddenly been reversed. Only a few weeks ago Gil had been guarding Matt while he slept: _Now Matt is protecting me_.

"Mattie, I'm alright," he lied. Fully awake now, he recognized the grumbling—the sound that had scared him in sleep—as an old furnace. It sounded close, in the room next-door. Gil shifted. He could feel sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the slight change in temperature. He hated that foreboding sound, which stirred unhappy memories. He had hoped to be discrete about it, but Matt said:

"Gil, what's wrong?"

"Besides the glaring obvious?" he asked rhetorically. He attempted a cheeky grin as Matt adjusted the puffy comforter, then said: "It's nothing, schatz. I just— _ah_!" He hissed in pain. The wound in his side had been tended, rather expertly, but it was still raw and tender. "Fick. Guess I'll have a new scar to impress the ladies," he joked. But it was weak. He couldn't ignore the grumbling furnace behind him, it sounded faulty. His reaction did not go unnoticed.

"Gil," Matt asked hesitantly, sitting up. "How did you get the scars on your back?"

Gil sighed. Matt was perceptive at the most inopportune times. "It's not a good story—" he started, but Matt stopped him with a single, pointed look. "They're burn scars," he relented, leaning back to hide them (the Lithuanian had removed his shirt to tend him, leaving his torso exposed). "When Ludwig and I were little, twelve and ten-years-old, we lived on a military base in Germany. Accidents happen," he said vaguely, shrugging. "We were somewhere we weren't supposed to be and playing with equipment we weren't supposed to touch. It was entirely my idea, disobeying Vater's trust. It was dangerous and I was stupid. There was an explosion. I threw myself onto Ludwig, dropping down, but it didn't save me from the fire. I suffered second-degree burns. I was hospitalized for a long time, but Ludwig was safe. He injured his forearm but otherwise he was fine. That's why I don't regret it. I never have. I regret my stupidity, but not my actions to save mein little bruder. And if I had to I'd do it again, no questions asked. That's when I realized what I was capable of, that I could protect others. These scars," he said, shifting uncomfortably, "are proof of that. They're the reason I became a police officer. It's always been such an easy decision for me and I've always been good at it— until now." He jangled the handcuffs in self-degradation, blaming himself.

Matt said: "Gil, you're not giving yourself enough credit. Your intensions were always good—"

"Nein, they weren't. They've been selfish since I met you, Matt, because I liked you since the first time I saw you. I've wanted you for weeks, ached for you. And now ich liebe dich—"

"Non," Matt interrupted suddenly. His tone was serious. "I've been lied to a lot recently. Tell me in English, Gil. If what I think you're saying is true then tell me to my face."

Gil cocked his silver-white head, wine-red eyes twinkling. "Of course it's ficking true. I love you, Matt. And I'm sorry I can't protect you."

"I love you too," Matt said in relief. "And you're an idiot for thinking you have to."

They kissed again and it was sinfully sweet. Gil sunk into it. For a brief, blissful moment he forgot about the pain and danger and lost himself in Matt's touch. He wanted to hold Matt, pull him close and squeeze his hips, feel his cool body skin-to-skin. He wanted to kiss the bruises Ivan had left (and maybe leave a few love-bites of his own). But he couldn't do anything beyond kissing the boy's lips, his face and neck; not while he was handcuffed. _Another time_ , _another place this might've been kinky_ , he thought, smirking into Matt's lips. Then the furnace growled again and he inadvertently flinched. He and Matt parted and Matt blinked. Gil chuckled, a little embarrassed, and said:

"I'm an awesome hero, of course, but I'm still afraid of fire."

"I'm afraid of snakes," Matt returned. For a moment both of them smiled.

Then Ivan said: "That is useful information."

In reflex Gil jolted, trying to free himself in defense. He hadn't even heard the door open, graveyard-silent as Ivan could be. He stood like a big tomb, looming over the young, injured couple, and stared at them darkly, displeased with their proximity to one another. He eyed the clean linen bandages wrapped around Gil's middle and sneered. "I see that you're making the most of my hospitality," he said to Gil. His ice-cold eyes flashed in jealously. "Matvey." He marched forward and pulled Matt up, despite Gil's protest. "I've been good, da? I've kept my promise not to kill him," he jutted his chin at Gil. "Now you'll keep your promise to me, _remember_?" Without warning he revealed a long, broken water-spigot (the same one he had used in an attempt to kill Francis). It was a sharp, uncivilized tool for one purpose: brute force. Like a baton, he pointed it at Gil.

"Non, please don't! I remember," Matt hurried. "I'll do anything you want, I promise."

"You'll stop trying to run from me and behave, da? You'll love me back?"

Matt wasn't expecting such a blatant, intangible request. He hesitated—and Ivan hit Gil hard with the spigot. Gil clenched his teeth, but a growl escaped him. Matt said: "Yes, I will! I'll love you!"

Ivan glared down at Matt, unconvinced. Clenching the spigot one-handed, he grabbed a chunk of Matt's curls and pulled back his head. "Prove it, Matvey. Right here, right now."

Gil watched in abject horror as Ivan forced Matt to his knees while simultaneously unbuttoning his trousers. "Nein!" he shouted, struggling. Ivan only smiled as he leveled Matt's face with his cock. "Nein! Stop it!" Gil could feel the metal cutting into his wrists as he thrashed wildly, screaming: "Ivan, you mutterficker! Stop it! Please—"

* * *

Matt was afraid but he tried to hide it. On his knees in front of Ivan, he knew what was expected of him. And he did it. _I'm not a liar_ ,he steeled himself. He would do anything if it would save Gil. He could feel Ivan's big hand clutching a fistful of his hair, guiding him. He tried to ignore Gil's angry shouts, which made his heart ache. Made him not want to do this. Instead he grasped Ivan's trouser-legs and shyly poked out his tongue in dreadful anticipation. His heart was pounding as he glanced up at Ivan. The Russian eyed him in challenge, lifting the spigot in threat. Matt felt his forceful grip tighten. He said: "Matvey, is something wrong?"

Matt shook his head: No—and took Ivan's cock into his mouth.

Immediately his gag-reflex kicked in and he nearly choked. He tried to pull back but Ivan pushed his face forward, producing a pulsating, back-and-forth motion. Matt gasped. It tasted—weird. He wanted to cry. Ivan inhaled in pleasure and half-dragged Matt over to the bed, sinking down on the edge; Matt's naked legs burned on the carpet. He could feel Ivan's legs shaking, his whole body responding in arousal. He could feel the Russian's cock swelling in his mouth, growing hard. Ivan groaned loudly as the boy worked his cock between his lips. Gil, however, had gone deadly-silent. It was unnerving, and somehow made Matt feel even worse. Trying to distance himself from his task, from everything, he closed his eyes. He clutched Ivan's trouser-legs, slipping his hand into the back-pocket. Finally—revolted, yet desperate to finish—Matt found a fast, gyrating rhythm and sucked deeper; slurped harder; and squeezed. Ivan's hips bucked and he gasped. Matt tried to escape in time but Ivan held him as his cock released, filling the boy's mouth with hot, milky semen. Matt choked. Then swallowed.

When Ivan finally let go of him Matt fell onto hands, coughing violently.

"Matvey," he breathed, chest panting in satisfaction. Leaning down, he lifted Matt up and tenderly wiped his lips clean. "Ya tebya lyublyu," he said, smiling in victory. Then he kissed Matt's cheek.

After Ivan had left, the room fell silent. It was silent for a long time.

Then Gil said: "Why?"

He was sitting against the wall, head bowed. Refusing to look at Matt.

"How could you do that? How could you let him _play with you like that_?!" he snarled. "Mattie, you— I can't believe you just did that like it was nothing, like a ficking slut!"

Slowly, Matt stood. He walked over to Gil and stared determinedly down at him. "You would've rather been beaten or killed than let me give Ivan a fucking blowjob?"

"Ja!" Gil spat, looking up. His red eyes glared, red-rimmed with angry tears.

"Why?!" Matt countered, fueled. "Why is _your_ life worth less than _my_ virtue?! I'll tell you something, Gil," he said, kneeling down. Roughly he grabbed Gil's chin. "If it means keeping you safe then I'll moan and beg and let Ivan fuck me raw!"

"Nein, Mattie! I can't— _why_?" he asked, bewildered.

"Because I love you, Gilbert Beilschmidt. And I'll do anything to protect you."

That said, Matt released Gil and held up his hand. Between his thumb and forefinger swung a small, glinting something that he had taken from Ivan's back-pocket. It was the handcuffs key.


	9. Chapter Eight

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **EIGHT**

Gil and Matt decided to wait until sundown to escape, thinking it would be less conspicuous under the cover of darkness. Both of them were physically weak—neither had eaten or slept properly in forty-eight hours—and they would have to go slow because of Gil's injury. He told Matt exactly where he had left his motorcycle, which they could use to reach town and then call the police from a safe location. It was dangerous though. If Ivan caught Gil trying to escape then Matt's opinion wouldn't save the German. Ivan would kill him.

"When we reach the door will you be able to unlock it?" Matt asked. It would be the most time-consuming stage of their escape.

"Not without something to pick the lock with," Gil answered. "I need my lock-picks, and a weapon would be great too. My satchel," he said, describing it.

Matt left to search for it, feigning thirst. Ivan didn't mind Matt wandering around the basement, especially since _the incident_ —Gil refused to think of Matt performing oral sex on Ivan—wherein Matt had promised to behave. The Russian wanted Matt to love him, and even he, twisted as he was, knew that keeping the boy locked-up wouldn't win him any favours. Gil waited while Matt was gone, stretching his sore body. Matt had tried to sooth the pain by massaging Gil's muscles, but his neck still ached fiercely; he still felt stiff. When Matt returned fifteen minutes later, it was with Toris and Feliks. Toris was holding two heated, prepackaged microwavable suppers, which he gave to Matt. "You should both eat something," he said, intimidated by Gil's glare. Feliks, on the other hand, leaned down, hands planted on his hips, inspecting Gil's state. "You look awful, like half-dead already, doesn't he? You've got, like, the creepiest eyes I've ever seen!"

"Feliks!" Toris reprimanded. Grabbing his friend's biceps, he marched Feliks from the bedroom. Almost a half-head shorter than the Lithuanian, the Pole cast a sidelong glance at Gil and grinned.

"You didn't find my satchel?" Gil guessed. Matt shook his head.

They ate in near-silence, Matt feeding Gil like an invalid (being a captive was _really_ hurting his pride). They were both focused on escape. Gil could see anxiety in Matt's violet eyes: the desire for freedom fighting fear. "Don't punk-out on me, schatz. We're getting out of here, whatever the risk," he said. _I promised that I would get Matt home safely_ , _and that's what I'm going to do_.

Later that evening, however, Ivan returned and took Matt away. Discretely Matt left the handcuffs key with Gil so that Ivan wouldn't find it when he stripped him naked, but it was of little consolation. _Fuck_! Gil's temper flared. He opened his mouth to protest and yell at the Russian, but Matt shook his head in warning: _We've only got one chance to escape. Don't fuck it up_. So Gil let him go without a fuss, playing defeat. It stabbed at him, letting Ivan think that he had won. It hurt his pride, but more so it hurt his heart. Matt tried to keep quiet, but the walls were not insulated and the basement echoed, and Ivan wanted to hear Matt's voice as he fucked him. It sounded forced to Gil's ears, but Ivan seemed blissfully pleased with Matt's performance. He could hear the Russian's deep, breathless voice urging the boy on. Gil closed his eyes and tried not to listen. The furnace growled loudly behind him and he focused on that instead. Fear, he decided, was preferable to listening to someone you love get hurt on your behalf.

Eventually Matt's voice quieted and Gil was left with nothing but the furnace's threat for company. It was preferable to the dead-silence, which unnerved him; it was worse than Matt's breathless, high-pitched whimpers and Ivan's deep-throated groans. After waiting and worrying for a long time—hours, in fact—he finally realized that Matt wasn't coming back tonight. Ivan was keeping him close.

 _Fuck this_ , he thought, resolve breaking. Fitting the key into the handcuffs' lock and fiddling with it, he freed himself. He stood slowly, rubbing his wrists, bones cracking in disuse; his legs felt wobbly. He clenched the key (the only weapon he had) and bravely left the bedroom, determined to rescue Matt or die trying.

* * *

Matvey, ya tebya lyublyu. Tomorrow we'll leave this awful place and go home to Russia," said Ivan, pressing his lips to the back of Matt's knuckles. He smiled.

"Uh huh," Matt exhaled. He was still trying to catch his breath, heart-rate still elevated. He felt hot and dizzy, and—pleasantly tired. Ivan had been so much gentler the second time, showing Matt how good sex could be between them when they were both willing and, despite his feelings, his body had responded in arousal. _It's not me that wants it_ , _it's my fucking hormones_. _It's just my body_ , he justified his reaction. He was eighteen-years-old, after all, and this was technically the first time he had really had sex (rape aside). Despite the danger, it had been new and exciting and, in playing along to please Ivan's fancies, Matt had unintentionally gotten to experience sex as a participant this time, not a victim. And it felt good. Oh, he _hated_ how good it had felt. He hated himself for even thinking it! He felt dirty, like a traitor, as if he was betraying Gil. _He should've been my first time_ , he thought sadly. _It should've been Gil_.

"Matvey, you'll like Russia," Ivan continued obliviously. "It's a beautiful country. It's where we both belong." He inched closer to Matt on the bed and wrapped an arm underneath him, holding him gently and toying with his curls. Matt looked at the opposite stud-wall. He knew that Ivan was staring at him and it made him uncomfortable. Instead of speaking he hid his face, curling into the contours of Ivan's big body to avoid conversation, pretending to be just as satisfied and tired, which, in truth, he was. He thought about Gil, Francis, and everyone who had tried to protect him over the last month and he wanted to cry, feeling like he had betrayed them all. Lying there naked beside Ivan, so meek and subservient, felt like a slap in the face of everyone he loved.

 _I want to go home. I want this to be over_ , _just a nightmare._ _Please— just let me go home_.

"Russia," said Ivan quietly, his lips pressed to the shell of Matt's ear, nipping it, "will be a fresh start for both of us, a place we can be together. I will never let anything hurt you. I'll never let anyone touch you, Matvey. Only me. I'll take care of you, protect you. It'll just be you and I, always. You're mine now, lubov moya. Forever."

Ivan fell asleep, but even sleeping he kept his hold on Matt. He hugged the boy, pressing his cheek against the crown of Matt's head as a pillow. Matt tried to wriggled free, but found that Ivan was an exceptionally light sleeper and indicated wakefulness. His struggles backfired and Matt was pulled even closer. Ivan kicked one of his legs over Matt's and held him like a body-pillow with both arms. With the Russian's weight pressing down on him there was nowhere that Matt could go. He laid on his back and stared into the darkness, almost pitch. There was no window in this bedroom. The only crack of light shone in beneath the locked door.

 _It's getting late—_ early, really— _I've got to get out of here. I won't go to Russia_. _Not with him_.

 _I have to get back to Gil_.

* * *

Gil closed the bedroom door behind him to avoid suspicion. He didn't know what he was going to do exactly, except find Matt. He was improvising, clenching the handcuffs key between his fist readily (a relatively sharp piece of jagged metal, he figured that he could do some damage with it if attacked). _But it has to be fast_ , he coached himself, _if I find Ivan_ , _I've got to keep the element of surprise_ , _otherwise—_ a stab of pain radiated from his side, making him sweat— _he'll kill me._ But finding Matt was Gil's one and only priority: _I've got to find him_. He had already failed Matt twice, he wouldn't make it a triad. _I'll save him from Ivan_ , _I promised I would. But where is he_?

He passed a rec-room with a lounge and television, which was showing re-runs of an old American sitcom. There was a small, curly-haired blonde asleep on the couch. He looked like the least intimidating person on earth, in Gil's opinion; he looked like a kitten taking a cat-nap, almost cute. Behind the couch stood a tall, bespectacled man who was talking to Toris. None of them looked like killers, even though their records suggested otherwise. The tall man looked more like an intellectual and Toris' face was customarily worried (undoubtedly the Lithuanian suffered from an anxiety disorder; his hands were shaking). At Toris' feet, Gil saw his satchel lying forgotten.

 _Fuck_! There was no way he could retrieve it without being noticed. In fact—

Gil froze when Toris suddenly glanced over and saw him above the Estonian's shoulder. He looked surprised for a split-second, then frowned in indecision. Gil held his breath and cautiously lifted his finger to his lips, indicating silence. Toris eyed him warily for a minute, pretty green studying wine-red. Then, discretely, he inclined his head and refocused on the Estonian as if he hadn't seen Gil at all. Gil exhaled in relief and moved quietly away from the rec-room door, internally thanking Toris for his discretion. He really wasn't a bad guy at heart, Gil decided.

He walked in a full circle as the corridor wrapped around. All of the rooms seemed to be located on the inside of the structure, which is why none of them had windows. It wasn't a big house, but the underground was confusing. He opened the same door—a linen closet full of storage; he took a metal wrench to use as a weapon—twice before regaining his bearings. It was dark. When he saw the stairwell door opening, he quickly ducked into the closest room to avoid being seen. He almost retreated when he realized that it was the furnace room, but voices outside of the door stayed him. The big, ancient-looking metal beast was growling and covered in beads of condensation. It was stuffy inside and tasted like gasoline. He could see big, rusted pipes clinging to the walls and moonlight, which shone in through the half-window near the ceiling. It only took Gil a second to plan out an escape route: careful of the furnace, he could easily scale the low-ceilinged wall and climb out the window. On his tip-toes, he used the wrench to jimmy it open. And as he did, he listened to the conversation directly outside in the corridor:

Feliks said: "When are you leaving, Tori? Can't I go with you?"

"Ne. That's not a good idea. It's going to be hard enough getting Ivan, and now Mathew, out of the country. We have to leave for Russia in five hours and you don't have a passport. You're too disorganized, Feliks," said Toris affectionately. "Besides, you hate Russia. Why would you even want to come?"

"I don't hate you, Tori. I've kind of, you know, missed you since you moved out."

It was softly said, a confession, but Gil barely noticed. He had stopped listening after: _We have to leave for Russia in five hours_. Sweating profusely, he forced open the window and gulped in a mouthful of cool, early-morning air. His heart was beating madly in fear and anxiety; his brain was thinking fast. Five hours: _in five hours I'll lose Matt_ , _maybe forever_. He clenched his fist around the wrench, feeling desperate. He searched the barren room for inspiration. It was the heart of the old farmhouse. The supports here looked old, as if they would collapse on impact. _This is the original foundation_ , he realized. Then a horrible, dangerous thought struck him. He eyed the big furnace fearfully (a bead of sweat rolled down his face). It was an old, unstable machine with a faulty interior. He clenched the wrench in sabotage and swallowed in anticipation.

 _I won't let Ivan take Matt away_ , he thought fiercely. _I won't lose him forever_.

He calculated the distance, reaction-time, and the repercussions. Then he took the wrench and smashed it into the mechanism, wielding it like a club. He jammed it into the furnace's internal organs. And then he ran.

 _It'll be okay. The furnace will erupt_. _Ivan will take Matt outside to safety_. _I'll grab him and then we'll run. Nobody will get hurt. Ivan will save Matt_ , he trusted. If nothing else, the Russian was dedicated to Matt. _We can't escape together from inside_ , _so I'll meet him outside. I'll save him. It'll be okay_.

Seconds after Gil crawled through the open window the furnace exploded.

* * *

Ivan awoke with a start and Matt flinched. He had heard the explosion; he had felt it reverberate in the walls, as if a grenade had gone off. Disoriented, he didn't realize what had happened until Ivan—who had leapt up, half-dressed—reached the bedroom door. "Stay here, Matvey," he ordered, hurrying out. "I'll be right back."

"Non, wait!" Matt struggled, legs tangled in the bed-sheets. He stumbled and collapsed, biting back a shout, and reached the door after it had closed. He tried the doorknob but it was locked. "Ivan!" he called, banging his fist. But nobody answered. _Gil_ , he thought in panic. _What did you do_? _What's going on_? "Ivan!" he tried again, uselessly. _If Ivan finds Gil then he'll kill him_. _I can't let that happen_ , _but what can I do trapped in here_? "Damn it!" he cursed. In defeat, he slammed both fists against the door. And felt heat.

* * *

Gil paced frantically in the back-garden, anxious and scared of the inferno. He could see flames licking the house's foundation, climbing higher. And he waited. And waited. Heart pounding, feeling sick, he waited for Ivan to emerge from the house with Matt. _He'll come. He'll save Matt from the fire_ , _he won't let him die._ But as the minutes ticked by, Gil's hands began to shake. "Nein," he said aloud, surveying the fire-bright yard. He could smell the smoke, could feel the heat. "Nein! C'mon, Ivan, where the fick are you?!"

Suddenly a wall collapsed. Blown-out from the exploding furnace, the old supports fell and the house slanted sideways, dipping down. Gil let out an involuntary yip in surprise, red eyes dancing with flames.

"C'mon, Ivan— _come on_!"

Two figures emerged from the collapse. Gil perked-up hopefully, then deflated. It was the Estonian, holding up the small Latvian boy, who vomited onto the lawn.

"Fick!" Gil cursed in regret. He was angry now as well as scared; angry at Ivan, but mostly at himself. "Where are you, Mattie?!"

In the distance he heard sirens. Somebody, a neighbour perhaps, had called the fire department. But Gil couldn't wait. It had already been too long. Ignoring the pain stabbing at his side, irritated by the heat, he approached the house: smoking and crackling. Somewhere in his brain he was terrified of the fire and he could feel the burnt and blistered skin of his raw back as if renewed. Fear ambushed him and a phantom pain shot through him. But he didn't hesitate (not even for a step). Determined, he steeled his nerves and focused on Matt, the boy that he loved.

And the pyrophobic German ran into the fire.

* * *

Matt stuffed the bed-sheet under the door, trying to block the smoke. Then he stood and banged his fists: "Ivan! Ivan, open the door! Let me out!" he screamed. But his voice was raw, already used to capacity. He coughed. Smoke seeped in through the cracks in the door, making his eyes water. He tried throwing his shoulder against it, but his body was weak and the door opened inward. It rattled but didn't break. "GIL! IVAN! TORIS! _Somebody_!" _Anybody_.

Afraid, Matt backed into a corner and sank to his knees. He pulled the t-shirt up to cover half of his face, his nose and mouth, and lowered his head, but it was pointless. The room continued to fill with suffocating black smoke, feeding on the old farmhouse. Matt's tear-filled eyes burned. He squeezed them closed, hugging himself tightly. He felt dizzy. He coughed-up phlegm and gasped, but he couldn't breathe.

 _I'm sorry_ , he thought, brain going fuzzy. Silently he began apologizing for everything—anything—that he had ever done wrong, trying to appease a higher-power perhaps, trying to atone for his mistakes. _I'm so sorry for always worrying you_ , _Papa_. _And for disrupting your life. I'm sorry I put you through so much trouble_ , _Al_. _You were a good friend when I needed one_. _I'm sorry I betrayed you_ , _Gil. I'm so sorry you got hurt because of me. I hope you're okay. I hope you're safe. I hope you don't forget me._

 _I love you_ , he thought, losing consciousness. _I love you_ , _Gilbert Beilschmidt—_

* * *

Tori— _cough_ , _cough_ —Tori!" Feliks cried-out. He grabbed the support beam that had fallen on Toris, trapping his leg, but it didn't move. Feliks burned his fingers lifting with all of his strength, but the heavy beam didn't budge. Feliks was crying and coughing. He knelt down and hugged Toris, trying to pull him out by force.

Toris clenched his teeth and pushed Feliks back. "Stop it, just go! Get out, Feliks— get out of here!"

"Nie! Not without you!" Feliks cried.

Both of them were fading fast, suffering from smoke inhalation. Gil briefly saw it as he re-entered the house, feeling guilty. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone (well, maybe just Ivan; certainly not Toris). He almost stopped to help them. The desire, his integral need to protect people, wanted to save them. _It's your job_ , his conscience urged, _like a knight. You're a law-enforcement officer_ , _you swore to protect people from danger_.

Then Ivan appeared, breaking the smoke-screen. Half-naked with a scarf around his face, he was hurrying back to the bedrooms but he stopped when he saw Toris and fear twisted his face. Whether it was concern for a subordinate (a possession; someone belonging to him), or love for a childhood friend, he seemed to momentarily forget his destination and hurried to help Toris. He and Gil passed each other, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, but the Russian didn't notice, too focused. He shoved Feliks out of the way and grabbed the beam. Toris was shouting at him: "Ne, Mister Braginsky! Just take Feliks and run, please!" But Ivan ignored him. The scarf had fallen from his face and Gil could see unyielding determination in his icy-violet eyes. He positioned himself like a big bear and pulled upward, gritting his teeth in strain. And he lifted the heavy beam.

But Gil didn't wait, he was already gone. He ran in the direction Ivan had been heading, pushing and kicking open doors as he reached them. He kept his head low, charging in under the smoke. It was dense and unbearably hot; Gil started to feel dizzy. But he persevered until he reached a locked door. "Matt?!" he called loudly. "Mattie?!" It was the right door, he knew it despite the silence— _because_ of the silence.

Gil didn't waste time trying to unlock it. He retreated a few steps and then took a painful leap and kicked-in the whole door. It swung back violently, hanging off its hinges.

"MATT!"

Matt whined weakly when Gil lifted him. His blonde head flopped and his limbs hung limply. The t-shirt he wore was soiled, nearly black. So was his white skin, shining with a layer of smoke-grease. Gil took the bed-sheet from the floor and pulled it over Matt and himself, offering a little protection. Then he ran, keeping as low to the floor as possible. The fire cracked and licked the naked stud-walls, which caught like kindling. It was dark, despite the flames. Gil shied away from them, yet he knew the smoke was more dangerous. It was hot, suffocating. He could hear sirens screaming outside. The fire department had arrived. They would put out the fire, but Gil had to get Matt out _now_. He was single-minded in his task, as a police officer—as a man in love. Saving Matt was his job.

When he found his original escape route blocked, Gil used the collapsed wall to climb out. He shouldn't have done it. It was incredibly dangerous, trusting the strength of a fire-damaged structure, but he was desperate. He was weak and scared and in pain; his body was overheated, exhausted. Matt felt heavy in his arms. Gil was a bad detective when Matt was involved because he didn't think; he just acted. Which is exactly what he did now. He could feel the wall crumbling beneath him as he struggled upward, holding Matt close against his body. Faster, faster. He could see the night's sky, clouded with smoke, stars peaking through. He could taste cool early-morning air.

Like a phoenix he burst from the wreckage, crawling onto the lawn, ripping off the bed-sheet, which had caught fire. He pulled Matt to a safe distance, shaking and slapping him. "Mattie?" he croaked, lying the unconscious boy down. "Mattie, wake up. You've got to wake up, you can't be—" _dead._ Gil felt hot tears on his cheeks; they blurred his vision. "Nein, Mattie! I can't lose you— _wake up_! Help!" he called, his voice breaking. "Somebody help!"

* * *

Matt's head felt heavy. Drowsy, as if drugged. Everything sounded distant. It was hard to breathe. Slowly he peeled open his eyes just in time to see Ivan's terrifying face. The Russian looked furious: murderous.

Matt tried to yell but found himself mute. He couldn't speak. He coughed, sounding strangled. He tried to lift his head, but couldn't. His whole body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. It hurt, head throbbing. Deaf.

Helplessly he watched Ivan grab Gil by the neck and throw him down on the ground. He crawled onto Gil's chest, pressing his knee against Gil's stomach, and squeezed his neck. Gil's wine-red eyes went wide. Ivan growled, showing his teeth like a predator. He said: "Nyet! I won't let you take him, I'll kill you!" His strong hands crushed Gil's windpipe. Matt could see the German's body kick weakly in asphyxiation. His mouth was open, but no sound came out: a silent scream. The life in his beautiful red eyes was dying—

"I'll kill you!" Ivan yelled.

Seeing Gil dying gave Matt courage. Adrenaline, a raw desire to protect Gil bubbled up and gave him the strength to move. He rolled onto his side, pushed himself up, and sunk his teeth deep into the Russian's forearm. He tasted blood but didn't stop. Not until Ivan released Gil. Gil gasped, coughing in reflex. Then Ivan shook Matt off and pushed him backwards. His head hit the ground and he momentarily blacked-out. He could see flashing lights and hear sirens, as if from underwater. He heard voices shouting, growing louder. Then:

"NYPD!" Al's voice. Al's gun pointed at Ivan's head. "Step away from them! Put your hands on your head and get on the ground now! Ivan Braginsky, you're under arrest!"

Then Arthur: badge in one hand, gun in the other. "You're wanted on the charges of assault, armed robbery, kidnapping, and attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before answering any questions. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. If you decided to confess now, you have the right to stop at any time, and do not, yet, have to answer any questions we ask. Do you understand your rights as I've relayed them to you?"

Grudgingly, Ivan said: "Da."

Someone else handcuffed him: Ludwig, his while-blonde hair glowed in the firelight. He used his strength to force Ivan into compliance. Matt blinked. Behind Al, he could see firefighters attending to Toris and Feliks (who were also under arrest)(curiously, Eduard and Raivis were gone). He saw an ambulance arrive, red lights flashing. Several paramedics rushed over, carrying a stretcher. Someone—Al, maybe?—lifted Matt up, and said: "It's okay, Matt. You'll be okay, we're taking you to the hospital now. Stay with me, Mattie, don't go to sleep."

But Matt said: "Gil—"

He was quickly losing consciousness. He reached out, wanting to touch Gil, who was lying on the ground. He looked dead. It scared Matt, who was being carried into the ambulance. Al stayed with him. "It's alright, you're going to be okay, Matt." But Matt didn't care about himself, not then. He just wanted to know that Gil was going to be okay:

 _Please_ , _help him. Don't let him die. I love him—_ "Don't let him die."

Then the whole world went black.


	10. Chapter Nine

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **NINE**

 **NEW YORK CITY**

 **SIXTEEN HOURS LATER**

Quietly Matt snuck into the adjacent hospital room, dodging nurses and medical staff. He wasn't supposed to leave his assigned room, because technically his health was still being monitored (even though he felt fine—a little woozy and dehydrated, but otherwise fine). Francis hadn't left Matt's side since he arrived, blowing into the hospital like a gale-storm, demanding to see his son. The hospital staff had stabilized Matt's condition quickly and then took him into recovery, where he fell asleep. He slept for a long time, almost twelve hours. When he finally awoke, Francis was sitting beside him. The Frenchman exhaled in relief and hugged Matt, tears in his eyes: he coddled Matt, rocking him. "Oh, mon bébé! I was so worried about you, I was terrified. I'm so sorry, chéri. I'm sorry this happened. It'll never happened again, I promise. I'll never let anyone hurt you ever again, bébé!" He was gushing and petting Matt's curls when Arthur walked in. Patiently, he waited. Matt flushed and bowed his head. Arthur smiled, but it was polite and unobtrusive. _He knows_ , Matt realized. _He knows about what happened._ Having been thoroughly examined by the doctors, they had reported the trauma to Matt's body to Francis and the police: Arthur. The evidence (they found traces of semen) would be used to convict Ivan. But Matt no longer cared about what happened to Ivan. He cared about Gil, whom he hadn't seen since leaving the burning house.

He asked Arthur: "Where's Gil? Is he okay?!"

"Yes, he's fine. He's sleeping," Arthur said. Before he could explain, however, Al strode in:

"Hey Mattie, how're you feeling? You alright? Gil looks like total shit, like something risen from the grave. He's even paler than you, nothing new," he teased, winking. His casual tone broke the surmounting tension, which relaxed Matt. The loud-mouthed American didn't pussyfoot around his feelings and for that Matt was grateful. He didn't want to be coddled; he wanted to know what had happened in detail. And Al obliged him:

"Three days ago I got a message from Gil about the Laurinaitis house," he explained, "but he didn't leave the address. I tried calling him, like, a thousand times, but when he didn't answer I knew what he had done: I knew he had left to find you on his own. It was stupid—(" _really_ stupid," Arthur agreed)—and when he didn't contact me again I knew that something was wrong. It took me a long time to find the house, but eventually I did. I had to do some serious digging. I told Arthur and we left immediately with a small contingency of agents. I'm sorry it took us so long to find you, Mattie. I couldn't believe it when I saw the fire, it kind of scared me. I was really worried about you guys," he admitted.

After that, both police officers left. Arthur paraded Al from the room. Francis urged Matt to eat a preheated hospital meal and then, exhausted from the drama, the Frenchman fell asleep. Matt slipped carefully out of bed and, looking left-to-right, sneakily crossed the hall.

Gil was lying on his back, asleep, wearing a hospital gown that matched Matt's. Beneath it he could see the German's bandaged torso. An IV was stuck into his forearm, as well as a heart monitor. He looked pale, weak. It hurt Matt to see Gil, his knight-in-shining-armour, look so _human_. Al hadn't exaggerated: Gil looked like death. And it was because of Matt. _He risked everything to save me_ , he thought, smoothing back Gil's silver-white bangs. He was cold. But his eyelids fluttered open when Matt's weight sat down on the bed's edge. And he smiled. "Hallo, schatz."

Matt swallowed, and croaked: "Salut." Without verbal prompting he slid into the bed beneath the sheets beside Gil. It was a single-bed and he curled-up comfortably against Gil's uninjured side, feeling safe in the German's arms. Gil held him. A companionable silence stretched between them.

"Braginsky's in custody. He's going to jail for a long time," Gil said after a while. "Arthur told me earlier."

Matt wanted to say: "Yes, good!" but couldn't bring himself to speak. He hated what Ivan had done to him, of course, the hell he had put everyone through, but Matt couldn't hate the man himself. It was strange, but he didn't feel angry; he felt tired. He was glad that Ivan was going to jail, but mostly he was just glad it was over. There was only one thing left that really scared him.

"Thank-you for rescuing me, Detective Beilschmidt," he said softly, smiling coyly. He leaned up and they kissed chastely. "I love you and I want to be with you, but—" _I have to go back to Canada. I don't want to leave you_ , _but I want to go home_. It was time to go home. He didn't know how to ask Gil to come with him, to uproot his entire life—his job, his friends and family—and relocate to Toronto. It was selfish of Matt, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing Gil now, even though they had only known each other for a month. They had barely had the chance to be together. He knew that he and Gil weren't supposed to see each other anymore now that the case was closed. It had been a doomed friendship from the beginning, part of being in witness-protection. But despite the complications, he said: "Tell me we can be together—?"

Gil squeezed him and kissed him. "We can be together, Matt. I promise. I'll quit my job," he hesitated (Matt knew how much Gil loved his job, such a workaholic). But he said: "I'll go back to Toronto with you. I'll do anything to make it work between us. I love you, schatz."

* * *

 **ONE DAY LATER**

Francis pulled Gil into a bone-crushing hug. "Merci!" he said, kissing both of Gil's cheeks. "You saved mon Mathieu's life, Gilbert. I can't tell you how grateful I am— merci!"

"Ja, err... bitteschön," he said, patting Francis' back. He glanced at Matt, who chuckled.

Both Matt and Gil had been discharged from the hospital with a clean-bill of health. They were standing in the parking-lot between an old police cruiser and an expensive black rental, paid for by the City of New York. One was taking Gil back to the downtown precinct; the other was taking Matt back to Canada. Gil felt unsettled as he watched Francis and Arthur shake hands in agreement. The Frenchman apologized for the insults that he had spit in fear and anger: to the team, the police force, and to Arthur personally. He watched Al bundle Matt into a fraternal hug and lift him off his feet; Matt hugged him back. "If you ever find yourself needing a big-brother again, just call," he said. Then he whispered so Arthur wouldn't hear (politely, the Englishman pretended not to notice): "You've got my cell-phone number, right Mattie?" Matt nodded. Then it was Gil's turn.

Al paraded Arthur and Francis toward the rental car, giving a monologue about cars that neither one was interested in, but fortunately they didn't protest. They just rolled their eyes and played along. Al cast an over-the-shoulder glance at Gil, winking, and Gil nodded in thanks.

He stared at Matt, wasting a full minute, wanting to memorize him: his pale-blonde curls bouncing gently in the breeze, brushing his winter-white skin; blinking those long eyelashes; drinking in those big, gorgeous violet eyes; and his maple-sweet smile. Then he drew Matt into a tender embrace, running his hand up-and-down the boy's back, memorizing the contours of his body: his lightweight figure; the column of his neck; those slender fingers grasping Gil's shoulders. How long would it be before they could see each other again? "Mattie," he sighed, burying his face in Matt's curls. Gil kissed his temple, his cheek, then his lips. He kissed him deeply, sucking on Matt's bottom lip, forcing it open. He tasted Matt's tongue, memorizing everything: his taste, his touch, his scent. Matt pressed himself against Gil and the German responded, hungry for more. Finally, breathlessly, they parted—then kissed again. This repeated several times before Matt said:

"Gil, when will I see you again?"

"I don't know," he said honestly (he wasn't allowed a passport without leave). "But I'll make it happen, Matt. Even if I have to quit the force. I'll see you soon, I promise. Ich liebe dich, schatz."

Matt kissed him: "Je t'aime."

* * *

 **ONE WEEK LATER**

Arthur dropped a heavy file-folder onto the desk; Gil jumped. It looked daunting (he hated paperwork). "This," said the captain, sitting back in his swivel-chair, "is the stack of paperwork I had to file because of your idiocy, Detective Beilschmidt." He looked unhappy, tired ( _what else is new_?). "I also had to sit through a long, strongly-worded lecture from the Commissioner's Office about protocol, force discipline, leadership, etc.; and was kindly told that my position had been jeopardized by this mission. They really like to intimidate," he sighed, staring pointedly at Gil. "I hope you understand your situation, Gilbert. You ignored a direct order; you unintentionally aided a kidnapping; you withheld vital information; and you endangered the lives of yourself, your fellow officers, and Mathew Bonnefoi. You made stupid, reckless decisions: you got yourself captured, tortured, nearly killed, and—

"You saved that boy's life."

Gil blinked, taken aback.

Arthur rolled his eyes. His lips curled into a wan smile. "You're a good man, Gilbert, and a good detective where it counts. I would (I did) defend that with everything I have. And now," he said, tapping the file-folder, "you're going to write-up the prettiest goddamned report anyone's ever seen. It's going to be perfect, not a fucking comma out of place, and you're not going to leave out a single detail."

"Uh, sir? About Matt and I—" Gil paused, feeling awkward about confessing to Arthur face-to-face. But if he wrote his report truthfully then the police would have it on-record that he had behaved unprofessionally on a case. He could be dishonourably discharged and lose his job _and_ his integrity. But if he wanted Arthur's advice, he had to say it: "I love Matt. None of this would've happened if I hadn't fallen in love with him and I'll take whatever punishment goes with it, but, no matter what, I don't want to lose him. I want to be with him. I know it goes against protocol, but if I have to quit the force, then —"

"Keep it off the record, Detective," said Arthur ambiguously. "You and Mathew never happened." Discretely, he lifted a finger to his lips, green eyes smiling conspiratorially.

Gil inhaled in disbelief, afraid to speak. Formally, Arthur continued:

"Despite your complete cock-up, the Commissioner's Office is rather impressed with you, Gilbert. Not with your detective skills, but with your dedication to the, err... job," he grinned. "You'll report to Head Office tomorrow to be awarded the Medal of Honor. I'll accompany you, as well as Alfred. After that you'll clean-out your desk here at the precinct," he said, nodding to the inner-office. "The Commissioner's Office is impressed, Gilbert, but they're more than happy to let you go. Heroics make great front-page stories but the paperwork's a headache they want to avoid in the future. They're happy to let you be someone else's problem for a while. I've already put in a special request for you to be transferred," he said, tapping the file-folder. "And I've written you an excellent letter of recommendation. You're to report in to your new post next week."

Gil paused, suddenly suspicious. Arthur had ignored Gil's offer to quit the force, looking smug. "Captain," he said, heart pounding in anticipation. He was almost afraid to ask: "Where exactly am I being transferred to?"

Arthur smiled. "Toronto."


	11. Epilogue

**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** **– Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD**

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

 **TORONTO**

 **SIX MONTHS LATER**

TPS, freeze!" Gil shouted, showing his badge. Matt jumped. He dropped a book in surprise, then shook his head in relief, relaxing. He picked up the book and shoved it into his shoulder-bag, then walked over. Gil was leaning against his shiny black motorcycle in front of the University of Toronto's campus. He was wearing a Toronto Police Services jacket and a cocky grin. "Hallo, schatz. How was school today?"

"Good," Matt said. When he was close enough, Gil stole a quick kiss in greeting. "Looks like you're settling in comfortably," he said, indicating Gil's jacket, fingering the rain-resistant fabric. Seductively he leaned in against Gil's chest, and whispered: "Détective—?"

Gil squeezed Matt's hips, pulling him closer. Matt's husky voice vibrated against Gil's skin, heating his blood. Despite being a twenty-six-year-old police detective—a Medal of Honor recipient—his stomach flipped nervously in excitement. He felt like a teenager in love. When he and Matt were together everything else stopped. He loved his life now: he loved beautiful Toronto (better than New York—don't tell Al!), and his job, which no longer monopolized his life. He had a nice apartment (and a pot-smoking Dutch roommate). He had his motorcycle and a passport and leave to visit Ludwig and Al on weekends and holidays. And he had Matt living only five blocks away. He had everything he wanted, but even that paled in comparison to this, right here: Matt in his arms, smiling.

"We should celebrate your inauguration into the TPS," Matt said suggestively. "Why don't you come over to _my_ house tonight?"

"Why? So your Vater can castrate me? He hates me," Gil reminded him. Francis' gratefulness had evaporated quickly the moment Gil had confessed his feelings to Matt within the Frenchman's earshot. Now Francis was back to playing the overprotective father, determined to scare Gil off— _good luck_. "He hates that we're together."

"Papa doesn't hate you," Matt reassured him, climbing onto the motorcycle behind Gil, hugging his middle. Gil snorted in derision as he started the engine, which vibrated. Then he felt Matt lean closer: "Besides, he's in Paris," he said (Gil could hear the smile in his voice). "We'll have the whole house to ourselves— _Détective Beilschmidt_."

Gil turned his head, feeling like the luckiest guy on earth. He kissed Matt: "Ich liebe dich, Mattie."

"Je t'aime, Gil."

* * *

 **ENDE**

 **THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thank-you to everyone who has supported _Off The Record_ by reading and reviewing it. In addition, I have written a short sequel: _Off The Record 1.5_ , which takes places four years after the events of the original story. For those so inclined to read it, I appreciate your support and sincerely hope you enjoy :)


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